


LAST CHILD

by Jackfan2



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-20
Updated: 2010-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 16:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 107,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackfan2/pseuds/Jackfan2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Duluth, Minnesota, an eight year old story of violence and blood shed resurfaces with clues enough to attract the Winchesters. However, just as the trail heats up, Sam is out with an illness and with a new victim in danger, Dean is compelled to begin the hunt alone, a decision he might regret, if he lives long enough. In a race against an evil far darker than either of theme expected, the Winchesters embark on separate journeys: Dean to save the last child from a brutal ending; and Sam, to save Dean from becoming the next play thing at the hands of a monster neither of them is prepared for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Adrenalineshots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/gifts).



**THEN**

**September, 2005  
Duluth, Minnesota**

 

>    
>  **_They_ ** _were singing Happy Birthday._
> 
> _Jake Rhys smiled at his friends as they clowned around, making huge gestures, vying for his attention, just being goofs._
> 
> _Mom shook him gently. “Blow out the candles Jake," she said, her mouth moving, like in slow motion. Dad stood behind her, kind eyes smiling patiently at him. Filled with pride and love._
> 
> _Their mouths continued to move, but the sound was warbled, distorted, like they were talking underwater. Jake squinted in an effort to read their lips rather than hear what they were saying. But when Mom nodded toward the cake in her arms, he shifted his gaze downward to the flickering candles. And stared._
> 
> _Locked in their mesmerizing dance atop the cake, Jake seemed incapable of looking away from the tiny pinpricks of fire. The movement was inviting and happy. Then all at once, dark and fading._
> 
> _It was his birthday, it was supposed to be his chance, his turn to wish for something childish. Something selfish for himself, but something stopped him; the flames. It was as if they held him, gripped by the neck, the heat suffocating him. It was like he was stuck, muscles frozen in place._
> 
> _The cake was pushed closer. The heat of the flames burned... cold. Not hot. It didn't make sense._
> 
> _“Jake!” Mom snapped, her voice rougher, grating through the stillness. “C'mon, people are waiting.”_
> 
> _Jake slammed his eyes shut. The anger and frustration in her voice broke him out of his daze. Familiar, clearer than it had been before, he knew he'd seen that look somewhere else, even as he opened his eyes._
> 
> _The world around the candles that burned brightly on the cake, changed._
> 
> _Gone was the dreamy vision of a perfect life; the mom and dad he'd always wished he could have. Replaced instead with the parents he'd always known, staring angrily down at him. Their gaze no longer holding him in high regard, but rather, the disappointment of a lifetime._
> 
> _Gone was mom's smooth, perfectly coiffed hair, the neat clean dress, and perfect smile. Replaced instead with the familiar ratted ends, all thin strands; dull brown and lifeless, just like her eyes. A cigarette rested in the corner of her lower lip, ash dropping on to the cake, like gray frosting._
> 
> _Peripherally, the faces of Jake’s friends danced and wavered, until they warped into each other, like paint on a twirling bowl and started melting away, one by one until they were all gone. Until the warm sunny day was replaced by dark, heavy clouds._
> 
> _The flames on the cake seemed to flicker invitingly and Jake looked back at them. Not only did they not give off any heat, but their presence offered no illumination to the rapidly graying day. For the first time Jake realized he was trembling._
> 
> _Jake wanted to step back, but he couldn't. Wanted to run away but his legs wouldn't budge. Before he knew it Dad was in front of him. Bent forward, face purple with rage, eyes full of thunder and promises of pain._
> 
> _“Jake!" Dad's stern voice made him jump. "Your mother is talking to you.”_
> 
> _No gentle shake this time. Dad's hand was clamped tight on Jake's upper arm. The same arm Dad had broken last summer when he'd gotten drunk and knocked him down the stairs..._
> 
> _This was Dad. Not the kind, smiling image from before. Not the one he'd wished for._
> 
> _Birthday wishes just didn't come true for someone like Jake._
> 
> _Just the mere image of the man was enough to set Jake's gut afire with rage. From the stained, wife-beater t-shirt, that did a poor job covering the round beer-belly, to the smell of his unwashed body, and down to the big brass ring that always left its mark on Jake's cheek; this man had been the cause of more pain in Jake's young life than anyone should ever be able to cause._
> 
> _These were his dad and mom. Jake felt his stomach turn._
> 
> _Any warmth he still had left was leaching away. It left him cold and... wet. The curtain of gray that blocked out the bright sun was growing darker by the minute. And colder. Through the chill, a putrid heat that Jake both welcomed and reviled. It tickled his senses._
> 
> _“Jake!” The enraged face of Carl Rhys shouted as he fisted Jake's shirt in one hand and jerked him forward. “Answer me dammit!”_
> 
> _“No!" Jake shot back. God he wanted to just disappear. "You son of a bitch- I hate you!"_
> 
> _The blow hadn't been unexpected. It sent Jake tumbling back, falling. Then his head slammed to the ground. Hard._
> 
>  

**The** shock of pain sent Jake crashing back to the present. Back to an overwhelming fear whose origin he couldn’t recall.

Jake rolled his head from side to side, grimacing in pain.

The gasp of shock that passed his lips still echoed in the concrete chamber. It bounced and reverberated in Jake’s mind as he struggled to open his eyes. Grappled with what he couldn’t remember and what he wanted to forget.

The celebratory sounds had faded, dispersed into the ebony darkness and Jake found himself trembling violently, and he knew. He was no longer warm. No longer safe. No longer in that place that wasn’t... here.

Jake shook his head, grasping at understanding, eyes opening in slits to stare at… nothing. Just oppressive darkness and cold.

The memory of his thirteenth birthday, images too strong to be peeled away quickly, left his mind reeling with the aftereffects. There was a distinct absence of pain in his jaw and Jake’s brow creased at the oddity. Dad never pulled any punches. Ever.

Blood, unexplainable bruises, broken bones, fear… they were part of his life, and had been for a long time. It was a history of pain no child, let alone a thirteen-year-old should know, or experience.

This time, however, it was his back, arms, shoulders, hell, his entire lower body…they all burned in the frigid air with an agonizing, fiery pain. He groaned, knowing that the sound wouldn’t stop any of those things from hurting even more.

Comprehension slipped further into place, and as the threat of yet another of his father’s beatings ebbed away his reality became terrifyingly clear; a concrete chamber, bloody bindings on his wrists and ankles, and pain. Always the pain.

Memories could be like physical things, and Jake had had far too many of the unpleasant kind in his short, miserable life. But this… _this_ was a new kind of pain. What he'd come to know as his own personal hell. This was real, not some distant memory.

This was happening now. And his tormentor wasn’t his dad.

It was a monster.

Jake slammed his eyes shut, hoping for the fevered dream again. Wanting to hide again.

The ache that wracked his body was in direct proportion to all the times the monster's heavy weight had crushed his small frame into the damp, unforgiving surface. He’d lost count of how many... it didn't matter. The first time had already been one too many.

Just days before he’d made a wish; there had been no cake and there had been no candles, but still, it had been his birthday and he’d been sure that he was entitled to a wish.

Foolishly he’d wished for a way to escape his life. Wished fervently to get away from his parents and his miserable existence. This, however, was not how he'd imagined his wish would be granted.

The memory, the beatings, the misery, they’d been a testament to a harsh, brutal childhood, a nightmare. This, though - this was hell.

In desperation, Jake mumbled desperately into the darkness, pleading to whatever god was out there to put him back with his father. He’d welcome the beatings, the shouting, the fear, rather than be here.

Anywhere but here.

Jake opened his eyes, for all the good it did him. There was really no point; the room, his prison, was pitch black. It was the kind of blackness that ate both light and hope.

Escape wasn't impossible. He’d gotten away from this monster before, he could do it again. Of course, still reeling from the drugs, he'd been an easy catch and god, that monster had been pissed off. Now, zip ties dug into this wrists and ankles...

No. Jake wasn't a quitter. He just needed to think. Needed to calm down.

Trying to calm himself, clear his head, Jake took a breath, and nearly gagged. The stench surrounding him was overpowering.

It was like decay and dampness. It was like the dead rat he’d once found in a storm drain last year. That had been the worst thing he'd ever smelled, that rotting, decomposing corpse. This smell reminded him of that. But this thing? This _monster_? It was far from being dead.

The cold, wet concrete surface beneath him saturated what little clothing remained on his small frame and the exposed flesh was chilled to the bones; he shivered harder. There was moisture on his face, but that was more from the constant tears that rolled down his face than the damp floor. It was his soul bearing witness to the torment of fear, pain and anguish that had started hours ago and hadn't stopped.

Something stirred close to him. The monster.

Jake’s breathing grew ragged, rapid and hitching in his chest. Echoing through his prison. Dark as it was, he didn't need to see it to know the monster was moving over him. Preparing to take him again.

Self-preservation jarred him to move and Jake tried. Again. He tried to wriggle away from the heat of the monster’s body. From the terror he knew was coming. It was a useless attempt.

The thing grabbed his arm. It squeezed. Warning him. Jake whimpered, tears cascading down his face. “Pleeeeeease…” he whispered.

Jake had known physical starvation and yet he’d never asked for a handout, never begged. Jake had known real pain when his father beat him, but he’d stopped crying long ago.

Crying was weakness and in the street, Jake had learned the hard way never to let that show. He'd learned to be tough. Learned never to wait for or expect handouts; instead, take what you want when you want.

And above all, never beg.

The last few hours, however, had changed Jake’s life drastically. Broken and scared beyond anything he could ever comprehend, he was no longer too proud to beg.

“No, no, no...” Jake’s voice cracked, rough from hours of screaming. He swallowed, tried again, “Please don’t…”

Not that it had helped the first time, or any of the other times since. The crying didn’t help either but he couldn’t stop it. Earlier, it had been shed out of anger, his whole being defensive, ready to fight, lash out, strike back. Now, it had dissolved into tears of petition, pleading and begging. Watery pleas for mercy.

Jake felt the monster loom over him in the darkness. Its unwanted warmth covering him, positioning him. Lifting his lower body up, prodding...

“Pl- please…” Jake shook, voice panicked and eyes closed. His head rolled from side to side in anxious denial. “Le’ me go - le’me go!” It was useless, he knew, but desperation drove him onward. “I w–won't tell anyooone… P-promise.”

The monster was prodding blindly. Searching. Too soon found what it was looking for and pressed tentatively forward. Jake’s back arched as he screamed.

Pain and fear were all the same now.

It hurt, just like it had hurt all those times before, but it felt somewhat different now. Now there was raw, swollen flesh and blood, from the repeated assaults. And, no matter how many times it had happened before, every single time the pain threatened to split him in half.

The monster grunted. One quick thrust and the thing was seated inside him. Completely.

Jake screamed again. Squirmed and writhed. Fought and bucked.

The monster’s weight rendered his efforts useless. It lay forward, across his chest, its heart thrumming against Jake’s. Hot, fetid breath huffing out as it growled against Jake’s ear.

Another warning, just like before. Jake knew what it meant. Dried blood still coated one side of his head from where he hadn’t heeded it then.

Jake gave it what it wanted; he stilled.

It grunted, satisfied with his compliance, rose up on its knees. Then it started sliding in and out of him in earnest. Blood and something too awful to think about, left over from the times before, made the passage slick, but it did little to ease the pain and humiliation.

Jake’s back scraped against the ground as the monster moved with increased speed.

It was too much. All of it. Jake couldn’t take it anymore. It had to stop. Had. To.

“Ssss... stop!” Jake screamed. Nothing changed. The thrusts grew more rapid, wild. His back, bruised and bloody, slid along the concrete. “Pl.. plea.. please. Stoooooop!”

The thrusts became angry, violent. It went on for what seemed like forever.

When it was over, when the satiated monster finished with a sigh, there was only silence; an absence of sound. Brutal in its honesty. Only Jake’s quiet sobs and the monster’s labored breathing echoed in the absolute darkness.

“Pleassssseee…” Because Jake was certain now, just where this was headed. “Let me go...?”

Jake couldn’t breathe. Something closed around his throat. Squeezing. Weight leaning over him. Panicked, Jake tried fruitlessly to get air. Eyes wide he stared upward. The monster’s face was close, nose inches from Jake's. Breaths panting into his face.

There were no visible details for Jake to see, just a pervasive darkness, it swallowed him whole. But Jake didn’t need to see it to know the depths of its evil. The monster radiated darkness. It defined pain and suffering and doled it out without thought. It represented, in human form, Jake's own version of hell.

It was two days from his thirteenth birthday and while life hadn't been great, he didn’t want to die. Not like this.

As the world seemed to slip away, a loud sound filled his head. It was a sound so terrifying it sent goose-flesh rising over his dying body. The monster's howl of rage echoed angrily, furiously into the cavernous walls.

Whatever Jake’s wishes were, whatever he’d planned or intended to do with his life... the promises he’d made to _never_ be like his dad… it was all ending now.

Jake Rhys actually felt the moment his heart stopped beating.

Then he felt nothing at all.

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

**NOW**

**Duluth, Minnesota  
Mid-November, 2005**

**Dean** took that first sip of his mug and sighed, caffeinated bliss sliding across his face. The rich, bold liquid hit his taste buds, soothing his nerves and easing the tension of the last couple of days like some sort of coffee-nirvana.

When he opened his eyes, Leslie, the little brunette behind the counter was smiling at him, holding out his change.

Dean smiled knowingly. "You know what to do with that, honey," he said with a nod at the 'Tip' jar.

"Thanks Dean," she said with a wink through her thick, book-wormish glasses.

This had become his routine over the last three days; hit downtown early, ask his questions, conduct a few interviews and do some digging. Then head to the ‘Java Loft’ to cruise the web on their free Wi-Fi, and reconcile his notes. Then, lay the ground work for when Sam was well enough to get out.

With Sam on the mend, Dean managed to stay out longer and accomplish more each day. Today, he'd stayed out longer and by the time he arrived at the loft, the morning rush was over, off to work and school. Now, the place was practically deserted.

Perfect.

Dean turned and headed to his usual corner table, the one with actual walls at his back, rather than windows. It was always wise to avoid curious eyes, especially those that might spy whatever grisly scene happened to be on the laptop at the moment.

A red head was waiting by the table. She reached across and plucked the "RESERVED" sign off the table top. "Your usual table." she said with a twinkle in her eyes and a theatrical flourish.

"Ah, you didn't have to do that for me," Dean chuckled and sat his notebook and laptop down on the tiled surface.

"We take care of our regulars," the red head added as she turned and bustled away.

Dean watched her leave, noting her fine... assets. "Promises, promises," he murmured, then turned and pulled out a chair. Groaning, he lowered himself to the soft cushion, glad to be off his feet.

It took only a moment to spread out his notebook, papers and pen, then he opened the laptop and while he waited for the network to connect, he glanced at his notes. Reading over the day's information he'd managed to collect.

The smell of the dark brew wafted upward, enticingly and he took another, longer pull from the cup. This time Dean's eyes drifted shut and there was no holding back the loud groan of ecstasy that rumbled up his throat and echoed across the small shop. The sound set off soft chortle of giggles from the female employees.

Dean dropped his head and sighed. Much as he hated to admit it — even to himself because no way in hell he’d ever tell Sam — for fancy-fucking-yuppie coffee, this was good. Damn good. His little brother would never let him hear the end of it.

“I got fresh, sweet cinnamon rolls.” The silky sweet feminine voice poured over him like syrup.

Lifting his head, Dean opened his eyes and gazed lazily up at the pretty blond in her Java Loft apron. _The scenery wasn’t bad either,_ he reminded himself.

"Ah, Kelsey—"

"Chelsea," she corrected, her face falling just a tad.

"Ch—" Dean stopped before he made things worse. "Sorry, sweetheart," he said, brow furrowed, a pained look on his face. Pressing knuckles into his eyes, he rubbed deeply at them. "It's been a long few days."

It wasn't a lie. It had been a long week. He _was_ tired, but if he was truthful with himself, even fully rested he'd have had the same issues. Names weren't really his strong suit.

"Aw," she cooed, face softening in sympathy. "So sweet taking care of your partner like that, and doing both your jobs too."

"Yeah, well," Dean nodded and adopted his best, serious look, "it's just what partners do."

"How's that coming anyway? God, looking into all those murdered kids..." she shivered visibly.

Writers, it was a new cover for Dean. Sam would be proud. Really though, it just fit, what with all the college girls working here, for them, it worked just fine.

Dean nodded. "It's coming along fine. Though," he added with a long suffering sigh for effect. "Though having to do it alone makes the process slower."

"Well, maybe this will help," In Chelsea's dainty hands, with their perfectly manicured nails, was a plate that contained what was possibly the biggest pastry Dean had ever seen. "It's on me."

Dean coughed abruptly and stared up at her, the image turning over in his mind. The pastry. _On_ her. _Jesus_ , he blinked, reeling himself back in. He really was tired.

The girl was adorable and curvy in all the right places, and, if her little display was anything to go by, Dean was pretty sure that she was no longer talking about the cinnamon rolls. Probably hadn't been all along.

“Ah, Chelsea.” Dean cleared his throat, dropped his voice to a low, sultry purr. “You know those things could never be as sweet as you, darlin'.”

The beaming smile on her face told Dean he'd been forgive, but the mischievous glint in her eye told him he'd be way more than that, especially when she leaned down to the table top and rested her elbows on the surface.

"Well, you never know," she said, biting her lower lip coyly and nudged the pastry plate aside. Dean now had an unobstructed view of the place where her apron dipped and her low-cut blouse left little to the imagination. "Until you... taste them."

Dean got an eyeful. It was a full half minute before he could even manage a choked whimper in response. Now was _so_ not the right time. Not. At all. _Dammit._

Recovered, Dean cleared his throat. "You know, I’d love to but," he said, leaning away from her offer. It was an effort but he pulled his gaze up and met her eyes. "It's just that I," he waved his hand at his papers and laptop, "I got this job, my partner, need to get back to the office... ” Motel, same difference.

God he really wanted to take her up on her offer. Maybe after this job was done….

Chelsea straightened. “I get it,” she said without the slightest hint of hurt or rejection. "Pastry's still on me," she offered, lifting up the plate.

Dean gave it a serious consideration, or at least he hoped it looked that way, then shook his head. "Next time?" he asked hopefully. In truth, his stomach really wasn't feeling it.

"Sure thing," Chelsea grinned, "next time." As she turned to leave, a mischievous light sparked in her eyes. "You know where to find me," she tossed over her shoulder and sauntered off, hips swaying gently, telling Dean just what he'd passed up.

Dean waited a full minute. When she disappeared into the back room he twisted in his seat, cupped his mouth and let lose a jaw-cracking yawn. It had been a near thing and he'd barely managed to hold it back this long. When he was sure no one had noticed, he sighed and picked up his cup for another invigorating sip. Or four.

Never had he been so tired that he couldn't muster up even a small spec of remorse at having passed up a blatant offer like that. It was probably for the best though; he had a strong suspicion that, even if he'd made it to her place he'd have been asleep long before they'd made it to her bed.

God he was tired. No, he was beyond tired; he was beat. The road to Duluth had been, in a word, intense.

Four hours into their route to Duluth, it had become apparent that Sam wasn't suffering from some run-of-the-mill 'cold'. Medical treatment had proven more than a little necessary, especially when deemed so by an overprotective, older brother.

By that time, however, the only clinics Dean had found, were all located in non-Winchester friendly towns. Numerous visits by the brothers over the recent past, had earned them anything from jail time for grave desecration, and an escort to the city limits with strict instructions to never show their faces there again. Well, it wasn't Dean's fault that the kid whose nose he'd broken in that bar fight in that last town had been the Mayor's son.

All good reasons not to stop, Sam had groaned, and all amounting to the last third of their journey, eight straight hours of driving, becoming the longest of Dean's life. Shoulders tight with worry, hands in a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, had raced to get a very sick Sammy to a more distant clinic.

While Dean was well-accustomed to long stretches behind the wheel, Sam’s pain-filled groaning and moaning had notched up his stress and made the hours and miles stretch out for what had seemed like days.

Once at the Urgent Care clinic, the doctor had delivered her diagnosis — influenza, and a pretty severe case too — it was then that the real work had begun.

The road was not the place for a brother who needed constant meds, fluids, barf buckets and tissues. So, per the usual, they’d holed up in a crap-ass motel, not far from the clinic, just to be safe, where the suburb of Culver turned out to be located just on the outskirts of downtown Duluth. There, Dean had followed the doctor's orders to the letter, which had translated into running himself ragged, getting little to no sleep and worrying constantly.

The first thirty-six hours he’d spent aiding a very weak, sick Sam in numerous frantic puke-trips to the bathroom, and because Sam didn’t quite make it on more than one occasion, Dean had strategically placed it by the bed.

Even that hadn't been a sure thing.

Sam had ended missing it on several occasions; massive cleanups ensued. When Sam’s fever had spiked, there had been fever-reducing sponge baths, constant upkeep of meds, fluids, and the full-circle need to replenish all of the above.

The _real_ hell had been the hours of helpless worry. Give Dean a monster or demon, some creature or spirit he could kill, beat or banish; something he could touch, shoot or stab. No problem. But watching as some unseen virus took down his brother or dad... that was hell.

The useless, powerless feeling had tied him in knots and in turn kept sleep at bay. Dean had filled his free time researching the series of murders and increased disappearances in downtown Duluth. Their whole reason for having made this journey in the first place.

Countless hours on the phone and computer had proven productive. Dean had found his monster.

The start of this hunt, hadn't been without its bone of contention, however.

On the drive up, where a Black Dog hunt outside of Albuquerque had turned into nothing more than a rabid coyote, Dean, with too much time on his hands and far too much energy, had began digging.

Armed with only a few reports of missing kids and his undisclosed gut instinct that this was worth a trip up, Dean had insisted that they headed to Minnesota next. Check into things.

Sam, however, had argued otherwise. Constantly. Nearly the entire trip, in fact, despite ‘the cold’ he’d been fighting off for a couple of days. And the sicker he got, the whinier his arguments became.

Sam's reasons hadn't been without merit; Dean was bored. Check. There really hadn't been enough hard facts or evidence to send them half-way across the country. Check, sorta. Sam had wanted more time to research some other, more viable hunts. Check again.

Stoic behind the wheel, Dean had held his ground, steadily guiding the Impala north, while Sam had made his case.

But as the miles fell behind them and before Sam could start making damn statistical charts as to why this was a bad idea, the flu had reared its ugly head.

In one way, however, the flu, had saved the brothers from further argument. Because exactly half way there, Dean had nearly cracked. He'd been ready to tell Sam that the reason they were really going to Duluth was because his _gut_ told him this was their kind of gig so _‘shut up about it, already!’_.

Dean's instincts. The argument on that one would've been epic because Sam Winchester, after all, fueled his movements on facts first. Not bored, bossy brothers and certainly not some unexplainable, unsubstantiated feeling.

Never mind that Dean's instincts had saved their collective asses countless times. Though, to be fair, Sam's thirst for information prior to each of their hunts, and oft times during, had been equally as fortunate.

It was all for naught, however when, once Sam's cold became something more, Dean had been too busy driving and worrying to throw down his gauntlet.

Going on their second night at the Sentinel Motel, Dean got confirmation that his hunch might be just a bit more than that. With Sam more or less settled for the night, Dean had just flipped on the TV.

Acting as little more than background noise, Dean paid it little mind as he moved about the room, cleaning up used tissues and glasses. It was the interruption of whatever show had been on by a live newscast that called to his attention. The anchor had stood in front of the police station and what he said, had changed everything...

 

 

> _"The body of a young boy, reported missing in late September and found in the city sewers two weeks ago, has been identified as that of thirteen-year-old Jake Rhys. The toxicology report, released today, indicated trace amounts of Rohypnol in the boy’s system. This drug is commonly known as a date rape drug and corroborates the physical evidence that the boy was sexually assaulted prior to his death. This hideous crime had already shocked the public opinion when, early on, was revealed that the boy’s body had been found completely devoid of skin. Initial Police reports state that this was performed after the teen’s death."_

 

The report had piqued Dean’s interest but what followed next had him bolting for the laptop:

 

> _"For the first time, police are releasing information linking this crime to a string of deaths that occurred between 1991 and 1994. During that time period, six bodies were discovered in various locations around the city, too deteriorated for any evidence to substantiate a suspect. Details, like the skinning of the victims, were at the time kept from the public in hopes of protecting the ongoing investigation. The deaths became cold cases when no more new leads on the matter surfaced. Until now."_

 

Dean paused, staring at the small TV set. The gaps from 1994 to the present spoke to the possibility of a pattern if he could find something further back. Maybe this thing only fed every ten years, maybe it had long periods of hibernation. All of it worked to breathe new life to Dean's efforts.

Dad's journal in hand, he'd sifted anxiously through the handwritten pages, skimmed the articles, writings, and hand-drawn pictures. Between that and a call to Jacob, he'd come up with three possible shape-shifting type creatures; skinwalkers, ogres, and aswangs. All of them could be very spotty in their attacks, often changing hunting territories and they all had a thing for human flesh.

Fighting off fatigue, Dean had redoubled his efforts and when he wasn't taking care of Sam, he had been hunched over the laptop, finding out more about this latest monster. He needed something he could kill. _Now._ He needed to work off the frustration of the last few days.

This thing — and it was a Winchester-kind-of-thing, of that he was sure — was going after kids. _Sonofabitch..._ Dean's hands tightened into a fist, _so much for gut feelings. This bitch was going down._

The bell over the front door of the coffee shop chimed, breaking his train of thought and bringing Dean back to the here and now.

The door, lost in the grip of the newest arrival, flew open and crashed against the adjacent wall. A gust of cool, crisp air accompanied a young couple who darted in, laughing loudly, faces red from the cold. Dean spared them a glance, but quickly did a strong double take.

A couple entered the shop. The girl was nothing to write home about, but she was tall and slender, with tousled auburn hair that caught at the back of her had and flew forward to nearly cover her face. Pushing the mass of curls aside, she beamed at the young man next to her, who possessively slid a hand in her back pocket. Heels clicking on the tile floor, the pair sidled up to the counter where she ordered a mocha-frappa-something-or-other.

Dean shook his head, amazed at all the weird names this place had for friggin’ coffee. Head inclined a moment; he decided with a nod that it sounded like something Sam would like. Maybe before he left…

The cell on his table started ringing and he glanced at the caller ID. _Huh, speak of the devil._

Grinning, Dean flipped open the phone. “Well, well, well,” he chirped happily into his phone, "look who finally decided to wake up.”

 _“Dude, I don't care what you say,"_ Sam's voice practically boomed through the phone, _"there was definitely a girl in our room!”_

The volume of his brother's voice made Dean yank the receiver away from his ear. Wincing only a moment at the accusatory tone, one side of his face tugged into a knowing grin.

"Good morning to you too, princess," Dean offered, feigning immunity from his brother's irritation. "You know, Sammy, hallucinations are a sign of a sick mind, right?"

In truth, however, Dean knew all too well what had caused his brother's ire; the cute little maid at the Sentinel Motel where they were staying. Amy.

It was one of the few immutable rules that the Winchester's lived by: No maid service allowed. Ever. It made sense, given their lifestyle; the constant travel, motels and the ever-present salt lines, weapons and sigils they kept about. Really, none of them wanted to try and explain the presence of such oddities to the staff. Or to the cops.

Days after Dean had hung out the ubiquitous ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the doorknob, after he had fussed and fretted over Sam for close to four days, Amy, had knocked on their door.

Dean chalked it up to fatigue because he got one look at her wide set eyes, pert nose, blonde curly hair and slender body, and melted a little bit. Not to mention the endearing way she flushed when Dean’s gaze grew more appraising as he leaned against the doorjamb.

Amy was shy but endearing. Not gorgeous, but cute, Sam's-type cute.

Doe brown eyes got one look at Sam, in a constant shifting lump of he laid groaning and moaning under a pile of blankets on the bed furthest from the door, and, dammit, if she didn’t just coo.

Right away Dean knew; this one had a definite Florence Nightingale thing going on and Sam was just the one for her. Not to mention, the room was a bit rank; it stunk of sweat and sickness. So, being the awesome big brother that he was, knowing Sam was no longer contagious and that, for once, their room was actually presentable — illegal weapons wise — Dean caved, just a bit.

After relaying specific instructions about what she could and could not touch, Dean left to get a soda from the machine. When he'd returned, she was gone and she'd done only what he'd asked, no more.

Sometime during her visit, Sam, still a little out of it, had apparently awoken, only to fall back in a fitful sleep. Later, he'd sworn to Dean that he'd seen girl in their room. Dean, wanting to get back at him a little for all the shit Sam had given him for this ‘it’s not our kind of job’ argument, milked it.

_“Not a hallucination. A girl, Dean. I’m telling you man.”_

“Dude,” Dean’s grin was now a full-fledged smile, “your wet dreams have gotten way outta hand.”

 _“Dean!”_ Sam snapped.

Yesterday, Dean decided to let Amy in again, reasoning that it couldn’t be good to leave the room infested with germs. It was for his and Sam's own good.

Then, long after Dean had returned from his day's recon, Sam had woken with the same, albeit more insistent, declaration. If Sam hadn’t been on the mend, Dean might have come clean but the fact was, Sam _was_ on the mend and this was just too damn much fun.

“Oh, I know, you been staring at the mirror again, Sam? ‘Cause I know that reflection of yours can be a bit confusing. Or, maybe it was the tooth fairy.” Sam's silence told Dean enough and he threw his head back and laughed. "Was she hot Sammy? With her little wings and all?”

 _“Yes but...,"_ Sam groaned, but Dean was sure it was supposed to be a growl. _"Dammit, Dean, cut the condescending bullshit!”_

“Fine. Fine. Geeze, you’re grumpy.” Dean sighed, laughter subsiding. “Dude, instead of bitching at me, you should be thanking me."

_"Thanking you? Are you serious?"_

"Yeah. I leave some totally hot chick alone in the room with you and all you had to do was give her that ‘poor pitiful me’ act. A few sniffles, let her mop your fevered brow, spoon feed you soup and next thing you know she’s giving you a sponge bath.”

_“I knew it! So yesterday...?”_

“Yeah.” Dean stretched. “Her name’s Amy—," his brow furrowed, "I think."

 _"Dean,"_ Sam wheedled.

"Doesn't matter, dude," Dean defended. "What is important is that she's only the hottest hotel maid on the planet. Brought us fresh towels and shit. And a little sympathy for the poor sick guy in my room,” he finished with a grin, taking a careful sip of his coffee.

 _"God, Dean,_ ," Sam groaned. While his voice was still gravely and his breaths a bit too wheezy for Dean's liking, Sam sounded far better than he had in days. _"You had me thinking I was... you're an ass, you know that right?”_

“Yeah,” Dean beamed broadly, “but it's a fine ass. Just ask Amy.”

 _“Whatever…”_ Dean could practically hear Sam’s eyes roll. His voice sounding clearer he asked, _"But seriously, you let a maid in to clean the room?”_

“Dude, I'm not an idiot. I had it covered. Literally. Notice the salt line at the door hidden nicely by the bathmat. The drapes are drawn over the lines at the windows and not just 'cause sick boy's got sensitive eyes.”

Sam sighed. _“You know,"_ he started hesitantly, _"she touched my forehead?”_

“Really? She there right now?" Dean looked at his watch. “Dude! Sponge bath!”

 _“No. I…."_ Sam's voice dropped, that tone of chagrin Dean knew well. _"I pretended to be asleep then she left.”_

Dean threw his head back and started laughing. “Bro," he said shaking his head, "you are one smooth operator. You know that, right? I leave you alone with a gorgeous girl — a total Florence Nightingale with the body of Jennifer Lopez — completely digging the poor sick guy angle and all you can think to do is play possum?”

_“Wait, what? Like a…a babysitter?”_

“I only wish our babysitters had been that hot,” Dean muttered as he pecked at a couple of keys on the laptop. “No, not a babysitter, more like a welcome back to the land of the living, Winchester style."

 _“Dean!"_ Sam's voice sounded incredulous. _"You pranked me? While I was sick?"_

“Hell no. Sick was the three days last week when your fever skyrocketed to 103, when you were puking all over the place, when you were so weak you couldn't make it to the bathroom. Sick was when you were sweating and shivering and—”

 _“You were worried."_ Sam interrupted his tirade, most likely grinning that annoyingly, knowing grin.

Dean knew his brother. “Shaddup... was not.”

 _“Yeah you were. But it's cool, 'cause I'm alright now. That was–wait. Did you say last week? Today’s the 18th... so, it's been—"_ Sam choked off his words.

"That's right sick-o, let it all sink in," Dean teased lightly.

 _“We've been here for five days?”_ Sam's voice took on a more sobering tone. _“Wow.”_

“Yeah. Wow.” Dean sat back in his seat and glanced again at his watch. “Listen, I got another hour or so here, but you should be all right alone for a few, right? I should be back ‘bout lunch.”

_“Yeah…wait. Alone? Dean, are you working a case?”_

“Case? What case? Thought you said there was no case. I’ve just been coming here every morning for the last few days to drink some coffee in peace. And ogle the college chicks. I’m telling you, Sammy," Dean nodded at two of the girls who were looking his way and smiling, "it’s a veritable Dean Winchester playground," he said watching them leave.

_“Are you still going on about those missing kids? Dean, man, it's sad, but kids go missing all the time, especially in big cities. This is something for the cops, not us.”_

“Riiiight, cops.” It was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes. It bugged him to no end that Sam still didn’t trust his instincts. It was time to prove it was way more than that now. “Oh, did I mention that the bodies of the victims were found without a single patch of skin on them?”

 _“What?_ Dean knew he had Sam's attention now. _"No, you didn't mention that.”_

“Yup. Well, the first six bodies over ten years ago didn't have skin, then it was quiet until last month. Oh, and guess where the most recent vic's body was found?"

 _"How the hell should I know, Dean? Bottom of the lake, inside a dumpster, buried somewhere,"_ Sam mumbled, his mind seemingly not putting much effort behind it. _"What's the newest trend amongst serial killers?"_

Dean rolled his eyes. "Dude, think less Charles Manson, and more Freddie Kreuger," he pointed out in mild annoyance. "Where do all monsters in the city like to go when it's time to nest?"

_"Sewer.”_

"Bingo, little bro. You get the prize."

_"Dean, why didn’t you wake me?”_

“'Cause, you needed the sleep,” Dean said, eyeing Tall-Slender-Chick with her boyfriend accessory as she walked by, drink in hand. “And because I’m an awesome big brother.”

_“Dean—”_

“Relax, man. You may feel better now, but no way you’re cleared for duty. Not after three straight days of burning up and puking up. Rest, Sam; it’s known as recovery, in case you were wondering.” Dean grinned at the one of the workers as she came over and filled his cup.

They weren't waitresses, but more than one of the female employee's had gotten attached to him. And he was seriously considering attaching himself to one or two of them. _Oh. Two. At one time. Niiiiiiice...._

Dean shook the thought from his mind. Seriously, he needed to wrap this one up quick. The need for sleep was at odds with his libido, leaving him seriously conflicted.

_“Well, why’d you have to drink your coffee there? You could've brought it back to the room. Lemme take a look at your research.”_

“Eh, no thanks, sir barfs-alot.” Dean’s face twisted in a grimace. “Tried the drinking-Coffee-in-the-room thing. Think it was the smell, it sent you running for the bathroom; worshiping the porcelain gods. Or were you too delirious to remember?”

 _“Maybe,”_ Sam muttered. After a stifled a cough, he continued, _“So where are you?”_

“You mean when I'm not there taking care of your sick ass?”

 _“Yeah,_ Sam chuckled. _"You at the diner across the interstate? I can see it out the window but I don't see the car.”_

“Nah. I'm at some yuppie-ass coffee shop downtown, near where the most recent victim disappeared. And, if pattern holds, the very place where the next victim should be taken.” Dean heard Sam's intake of breath.

 _“Downtown?”_ Even sick, Sam's voice held caution. _“You found enough to get a location?”_

“I think so.” Dean looked at the screen, then at his notes and recanted. “Make that, I _know_ so.”

_“Dean, man, we agreed. We're in this together. We don't hunt alone. Not anymore.”_

“Chill Sammy, I don't fit this things 'victim profile'. I'm not some nubile teen—" Dean thought a moment. “Well, not a teen anyway,” he added with a cocky chuckle. “Besides, I'm not exactly hunting, I'm just walking around, doing some harmless recon, a few interviews here and there. I just figured it’d be easier if I drank my puke-inducing coffee here while I scoped out the area.”

Sam sighed into the phone. _“Sorry._ " There was a pause a moment. _"Guess I haven’t been real supportive on this one, huh?_

"There's an understatement."

_"I promise, let me take a look at what you've found and I’ll try keep a more open mind.”_

“There’s a relief. I’m not Dad you know.”

 _“I know. Hey, just,”_ the line got quiet a moment and Dean braced for the chick-flick moment he’d felt coming. _“…thanks for—”_

“For being an awesome big brother?” Dean finished with a grin.

Sam laughed. _"Man, you do_ not _give up do you?”_

“Wouldn't be a Winchester if I did, now would I Sammy?”

 _"It's Sam,"_ he corrected, _"and no, I guess not."_ Sam coughed and Dean stilled.

"Seriously Sam, you sure you're feeling better?" Dean asked. It wasn’t rational, given that the worse was defiantly over now, but every time Dean left his brother out of his sight in the past days, worry still reared its ugly head with a million impossible possibilities of a relapse.

Dean watched, with a passing interest as the world outside the shop moved along, the day to day hum and beat of the city in full swing. Give his irrational worry a chance to quiet down. Sam was fine.

_“Yeah, I am. So how about bringing me back a coffee and a cinnamon roll or something. Then you can bring me up to speed on what you've got there.”_

“Whoa, you weren’t kidding when you said you felt better. Wouldn't you rather I just come get you?" Dean glanced at his watch. "By the time I get there it'll be close to 1. How about we go out, get you a little something with some protein in it?”

Amidst the people rushing to work, school, and wherever their mundane lives pulled them, a small group of kids skateboarded harmlessly on a small entrance to an alley. They laughed and tricked and flipped their boards on curbs and makeshift ramps, seemingly without a care in the world. However, as the man in coveralls moved with an unerringly determination toward the group, Dean suspected something might change soon.

It was a uniform of some sort, like those Dean saw mechanic's wear. The color, however, a light-gray, was not something any mechanic would ever bother to use when working in cars. There was no way to hide a grease stain in that color. There was a logo at the back of the uniform, something Dean couldn’t quite make out. Maybe a construction worker or a janitor. One thing was certain, whatever job this guy came from, he wasn’t there on work.

Thick, heavy framed glasses drew severe lines on the man’s face, and as he broke from the general flow of the rest of the pedestrian traffic to move, his direction seemed clear. Dean had the feeling that the boy's carefree day was about to come to an end.

Dean, as a youth, had been in that sort of position far too often not to recognize shit that was rolling down hill. Usually, he'd been at the bottom of the hill. And usually, it was Dad rolling toward him. Dean grinned.

_“Nah, for now, I think I’d like to start smaller.”_

“Small?" Dean deadpanned. Turning in his seat, he eyed the pastries behind the plexiglass then flipped back around. "Dude, you haven’t seen the size of their cinnamon rolls.”

 _“Bring it on, bro.”_ Sam laughed again. The sound of it, absent for the last days made Dean relax.

"Alright man," Dean began, but a shout from the street drew his focus back outside. "But don’t say I didn't warn you," he murmured distractedly.

It was the man in the gray coveralls and the way the kids turned, alarmed and looking guilty about whatever it was the man was shouting at them. One boy fell off his skateboard, two or three others chased their now riderless boards down. One however, hadn't moved. He stood watching with a tenuous smile as Coverall's approached.

No more than an arm's width away, Coveralls drew to a stop in front of the boy. Smaller than his friends, the kid had blond hair and even from the side, Dean saw his brow pinched as he listened to Coveralls talk.

 _“Dean?”_ Sam’s raspy voice called.

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but another whir of movement stopped him.

It was the kid this time. Neck extended to look taller than he really was, the kid seemed to be shouting back words eaten up by the distance and the traffic passing by between the coffee and the other side of the street. He tossed down his skateboard angrily and flailed his small arms, gesturing wildly, clearly defiant and frustrated. Coverall's stared down, listening patiently, or so it seemed.

 _“Hey!_ Sam shouted, loud enough to make Dean flinch. _"You there?"_

Much as he wanted to answer, Dean couldn't take his focus off the kid and Coveralls. Something nagged at the back of his mind that the whole thing, this exchanged just seemed off and he couldn't, wouldn't stop watching. For reasons he couldn't put his finger on he worried that if he did, he'd miss something important.

Still, Sam's voice was growing in volume on the other end.

"Yeah...," Dean said absently. "I'm... here."

_"Really? You don't sound 'here' at all. What's going on? Dean?"_

This time, Dean didn't answer, he was looking from the scene outside to his research, scattered out on the table.

He prayed to God that this was a supernatural being because that gave Dean all the reason he'd need to cap this evil sonofabitch when he found him, and find him he would. He'd make damn sure that the last child it had taken _was_ the last child it would _ever_ take.

A choked off car’s horn snapped Dean's attention back to the street. Back to Coveralls and the kid.

Coveralls had the light haired youth by one arm, preventing him from crossing the street, and even from this distance the boy seemed... confused? If their body language was anything to go by, their conversation was intense and mostly one sided; Coveralls doing most of the talking.

After a beat, the boy suddenly jerked and bucked. Hands flailing, he shoved at Coverall's hold, almost frantic in his attempt to get free. Moving around them, the by passer's seemed unaffected by the boy's plight. So maybe Dean shouldn't either...

But he was, and really he had no concrete reason why, other than his instincts. That was enough for him. Time and time again they'd saved his life, Sam's or Dad's. He wasn't about to discount them when the stakes were so high as to include the life of a child.

Instinct, and maybe it had to do with something more physical as Coveralls proximity to the kid changed.

In a move beyond bold, Coveralls dragged the boy in until the kid's body collided with his gray clad chest. He wrapped one large hand around his skull, cupping the back of the boy's head, keeping him in place. Too close. Closer still as Coverall's leaned down and pressed his mouth a hair's breath from the boy's ear. No doubt to whisper something. The two stilled.

Bold was suddenly an understatement. Wrong, was much closer as the pair held like that for far too long. The voice of instinct in Dean's head went from a whisper to a shout and Dean closed his laptop, felt at the gun in tucked covertly in his waistband, hidden nicely by his leather jacket.

Then, when the boy seemed to go limp in Coverall's hands, all pretense of protest wrung from his defeated frame: Dean was pushing back in his chair, rising. Wrong was now a gross understatement.

“Dammit...,” Dean muttered at the voice gigging him to move. Off his ass, he pressed his hands to the table and leaned forward, squinting at the street, gaze locked on the man and the kid, hands balled into fist. Why wasn’t anyone seeing that? Why wasn’t anyone doing something?

 _“Dean, hey."_ Sam prodded again, more forceful this time. _"What is it?”_

There was no concrete reason for the display of what was probably parental reprimand to seem like more than that, but it did. There was no reason for it all to seem off, but damn, it did.

Dean tried to shrug it off; chalk it up to a serious lack of sleep. That made sense. That, and the fact that this monster was targeting kids. The recent revelation of details surrounding the victims; the rape, the skinning... It just made sense; this job was making him jumpy.

_“DEAN!”_

Suddenly, Coveralls looked right at the coffee shop. And if Dean didn't know better, he'd have sworn the guy was looking right at him. Instinct took over and Dean knew, this was way more than what it appeared.

It was in that moment, when their gazes locked, that Dean felt that familiar prickle at the base of his skull. Then, a slow, taunting grin slid across Coverall's face.

Dean jerked his head back. “Oh, you gotta be kiddin' me," he murmured. It was either his imagination or Coverall's was openly challenging him?

There wasn't time to do more than wonder; Coveralls was on the move. With a shove that was a bit more than seemed necessary, the boy was gigged to move ahead of him, the kid's head down as he walked dejectedly away, but not very far. Coveralls followed closely behind. Too close.

Dean was moving. “Sam, I... I think I’ve got something," he said as he hastily pushed aside chairs, tables, nearly upended someone's coffee as he made for the door. Not once did his gaze shift from Coverall's and the kid as they moved away.

 _“Wait, you mean the case?”_ There was shuffling; obviously Sam was up, moving around the room quickly. _“Tell me where you are, I’ll meet you there.”_

“No time, he—" Dean jerked his head and corrected, " _It’s_ moving now, and it's got a kid.”

_“How can you be sure that's it?”_

Dean bolted out the door. “I’m not, just…" he scanned the crowd across the street. Coveralls and the kid moved steadily away. "I gotta make sure.”

 _“Not good enough, Dean,”_ Sam insisted. _“I got a bad feeling about this.”_

“Look,” Dean waffled, at a loss how to explain a gut feeling, “stow your Spidey sense. Soon as I know something…,” distracted, he stepped off the curb and into traffic to cross the street. A car honked as it swerved to avoid clipping him. Dean moved on. “I’ll call you back."

 _“No, Dean,_ tell _me where you are first.”_

"Um...," Dean turned left, right then looked up. A street sign stood directly overhead. “Coffee shop, Crescent and Maple,” he said, then snapped the phone shut.

Weaving through the crowd, Dean managed a comfortable distance between himself and his mark, careful not to tip his hand. He hung back, cautious to avoid detection, but not so far he lost visual. It was a delicate line to tow, and required as much skill as it did luck.

Sure it felt like he was being lead, but Dean was certain of two things; one, no matter where this path lead him, once the trap sprung, he could manage to turn the tables and get back control. Two, the kid's reactions were far too real. Whatever game Coveralls was playing, the boy was not in on it. He was bait. The danger he was in was real whether Dean followed or not.

Still skill was one thing Dean had plenty of but luck, it appeared, was still not a Winchester trademark as Dean suddenly found himself bobbing and weaving more and more to avoid people in his path. Three times he felt his heart constrict, fearing he’d lost them, only to miraculously — or conveniently — get them back.

It struck him then; the crowds had gotten suddenly thicker, the masses converging upon the walks. Dean spared a quick glance at his watch. Lunch hour.

_Shit._

Dean fought against the panic that quickened his step, urging him to run after the guy. On another front, he fought against the warning bells in his head, reminding him that he was being lead, but he tamped them down hard. Trap or no, there was the kid and no matter what, he couldn't let this thing, take another victim.

So he stayed cool and stayed the course.

_Patience, Winchester, patience._

Patience, however, was depleted by the continuously growing number of bodies in between Dean and his prey. One second he could see the gray coveralls, and the next they were gone.

Heart in his throat, he drew to a halt and stared at the last place he’d seen them.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered, wide eyes bouncing around the crowded sidewalk.

 

 

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**After** a mad scramble for clothes, the phone glued to his ear the entire time, Sam was out the door in a matter of minutes. Three times he’d hit the redial, three times he’d gotten Dean's voice mail, three times he swore he’d kick his brother's ass...the minute he knew Dean was okay.

"This is Dean Winchest-" Sam ended the call again. About to step off the curb, he stopped abruptly.

The parking space in front of their room was just as he'd anticipated; empty. Also, after a brief search of the room earlier, he'd found the car keys and the laptop gone too, both assuredly with Dean.

_Shit._

Sam held the phone tight in his hand, clenching and unclenching the cell, having to stop himself from crushing the thing when he felt the mounting anxiety nearly overwhelm him.

Now wasn't the time for panic. Now was the time to think. Dean might well be in trouble and panic would only cloud his thoughts. Cause him to miss something important.

The pertinent information of their conversation rattled in his semi-congested head; downtown, a coffee shop and two street names: Crescent and Maple.

Getting to Crescent and Maple was one thing, navigating the city without direction, was another. And a whole host of other thing Sam didn't know, like which way had Dean gone when he'd took off? Had he gone on foot? Was it really a shapeshifter that Dean was hunting? Had he followed the thing into the sewers before it had time to skin another boy? What should Sam arm himself with? That brought about it's own issue; weapons.

Without the Impala's cache of weapons, Sam would be going in unarmed.

Well, that wasn't completely true, Sam remembered as he absentmindedly ran one hand over the left panel of his jacket. The blade, tucked safely in the inside pocket, pressed reassuringly back against the woven material. It was the same, long hunting knife Dean slept with under his pillow every night, the same one Dean had used on the werewolf back in Bakersfield.

When Sam had found it in the room, hidden under his own pillow, there'd not been a doubt in his mind that Dean had left it for him. It was, after all, Dean's mandate that neither of them be without some kind of weapon at all times. Just in case.

Like now for instance. Just in case Dean got caught by something and Sam had to go after it alone.

Sam suddenly didn't feel very reassured. But, like it or not, the knife, and the sparse information Dean had mentioned before he'd hung up, was all Sam had to work with.

 _Some yuppie-assed coffee shop downtown…_ Dean's words echoed back in Sam's head and he looked at the city skyline to his right.

It was well after noon and the day was cool. In the distance, tall skyscrapers loomed, businesses and residences all mixed into one small patch of land, and among them, coffee shops. Hundreds of them, no doubt, especially when you factor in the university that sat smack dab in the city's center. All congested into one mass of people and places.

Sam looked at his phone again. A taxi could get him to Crescent and Maple fine, but knowing city's and the unlikelihood that Dean had followed in the Impala, Sam would need a way to navigate the hundreds of little streets and alleys in the area.

Sam, with a passion for big cities and an infallible internal compass, would need a map.

Dean, who found big city's noisy, tall and confusing, never could get his bearings straight. Between the tall buildings, masses of people and traffic.

Sam remembered the time they'd taken a job in Boston; Dean had bitched angrily about... pretty much everything. There was never any parking and what parking there was either too expensive or the spaces were too small for his baby to fit in comfortably. Sometimes both.

Then, there was the constant, nuts-to-butts traffic and the fucking wack-job drivers.

Mostly, Dean had seethed with indignation at the close proximity of the cars around him when he drove. The taxis darted out in front of him, bike messengers that zipped too close, narrowly missing his car with their handle bars, and when they'd stopped at a light, one had the _balls_ to put his filthy hands on his baby's exterior and _lean_ on her!

It had been all Sam could do to keep his brother in the car. When the cyclist took off, Dean had reached his limit. Sticking his head out the window he started yelling, “CHRISTO,” at the top of his lungs at any car or bike messenger that dared to come too close.

Sam, on the other hand, liked it when they worked a job in the bigger cities. The chance to submerge himself in the big city lifestyle with its rapid pulse of constant movement, where the sections streets with their many buildings were long enough to be called blocks, and the commerce had more than one brand of everything; where he could actually find a place that sold books on more than one topic.

Angry and stiff legged, Sam stepped off the curb and stormed toward the motel registration office. They'd have a map, or if not, a computer he could maybe find a map and print.

Jaw tight with frustration, and fear he fumed quietly over a brother who constantly and willingly put himself in harm’s way. Armed with a knife and a plan now, he'd get downtown. He'd pick up Dean's trail. Failure wasn't an option.  
First things first— get to Crescent and Maple. That brought about another advantage to big cities; public transportation.

The phone was back at his ear as he listened for the operator to pick up the line. Tossing a quick, worried glance at the distant city, he swore, if a taxi didn't work, he’d run there if he had to.

Either way, he’d find that dumbass, reckless brother of his.

 

 

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**Luck** in the Winchester world was a fickle bitch in the best of times, but determination was definitely a genetic trait and Dean came about in spades. Playing heavily on that, he glanced haphazardly down the street and shot recklessly across.

It was close. Car's honked and people shouted but Dean had moves and he was fast. He dodged and lurched without a seconds hesitation.

Once across, he slowed, and moved carefully through the crowds. Lifting on his toes, Dean strained to catch sight of either the thing or maybe the kid, or any kind of disruption from the crowd that might signify they'd gone that way. He’d hate to admit it, but there were times when Sam’s freakishly tall frame came in handy.

Coverall's handling of the boy had grown increasingly physical, insistent. He'd nearly shoved the boy on more than one occasion.

That further solidified Dean's earlier assessment and instinct; whatever trap lay in wait, the kid wasn't in on it. His reaction was too real. Too external.

But what really brought a bitter taste of bile to Dean’s mouth was the fact that the kid was being used to trap him. Whatever attention Dean had drawn to himself during his investigation, this thing was on to him, and the kid was in danger because Dean had slipped up. He couldn’t have that.

Kids were Dean’s weak spot. He understood them. Knew how to read them. Like Lucas in Lake Manitowoc, Wisconsin; Dean had known the kid had been through more than just the ordeal of seeing his Dad die, not that that hadn't been enough, but Dean had known how to reach out to him. Earn his trust.

Maybe it was due to the years he'd spent raising Sam. Or, maybe it was as Sam had said, Dean's own trauma of seeing their mother burn. Either way, Dean, strangely enough, connected with kids.

“C’mon… c’mon, be there…” Dean implored softly, eyes scanning the area, shifting from side to side, searching.

Then, as if fate heard his plea, the crowd parted like the Red Sea and there they were. Coveralls and the kid, clutched in front of him.

In that moment, time seemed to freeze. Coverall's gave an ever so slight nod downward. Concerned, Dean did as he bid; his gaze traveled downward and stopped.

The kid, the back of his collar fisted in his captor’s hand, stared back. Terror resonated in his large blue eyes, silently pleading, begging for help. The boy’s mouth opened in a soundless scream, throat frozen in fear. Coveralls other hand came around slowly, overly large in comparison to the small boy. It squeezed slowly on the side of the boy's neck.

The display was the message and the monster's message was clear; look how easily I could break his neck.

Dean snapped his eyes back up angrily. The monster grinned wider.

Dean's hands balled into fists,. They itched to pull his gun and just shoot the thing here. Now. Itched to feel the monster's flesh break under his knuckles. But he couldn't. Couldn't risk hitting an innocent bystander with a bullet. Couldn't risk the monster breaking the boy's neck before Dean could reach him.

The realization was paralyzing and Dean felt his face flush with rage; felt his resolve harden like steel, ominous and dangerous in his own right. He silently issued a challenge of his own, resolute and determined. He was going to get that kid. Now.

Events sped back up. The crowd surged, captor and captive disappeared in the masses once again.

“Sonofa …,” Dean bolted, anxiously pushing through the crowd. He broke just in time to see Coveralls spin on his heel, both adult and youth disappearing around a corner.

Dean didn’t think; he just shot forward. Eating up the distance, he reached under his jacket and pulled his gun, moved it close to his side, pointed down. In a span of time that seemed to take far too long, he arrived where the two had vanished. Cutting a hard right, he stuttered to a stop.

It was an alley. An empty alley.

Eyes adjusting to the dimness, Dean trotted down the shadow-darkened corridor. Certain this was the path they'd taken, he shifted the familiar handle of his Colt 1911 into a double grip, senses alert, moving forward carefully. The air was cooler here, yet it did nothing to sooth his racing pulse.

The place was completely trashed. Boxes everywhere, bottles, broken glass, newspapers all littered the ground beneath his feet.

They had to be here somewhere... but where? Looking right and left, he searched this box and that, kicked trash out of his way, looking for some hidden underground exit, a shapeshifter's favorite escape route.

Finding none, he continued along the doors lining the alley. He turned that door knob and kicked the one next to it, then the one across from it. He moved faster down the row of exits and entrances to the buildings.

Nothing.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me…,” Dean muttered in quiet desperation, eyes darting all around, hoping he’d missed something.

Then he saw it; a large dumpster. Dean closed the distance at a run then jumped the last three feet, grabbed the top and heaved himself up to gaze inside.

Again, nothing.

“Son of a…,” Dean dropped to the ground, dejected. He looked around anxiously, then deflated. He'd lost them.

“Dammit,” Dean muttered, feeling rage at his failure take hold and coil in his gut. Guilt added fuel for yet another life he hadn’t saved. A kid’s life. Then it exploded, “FUCK ME!”

“We'll see about that,” a voice taunted from behind.

Dean spun.

Half way around something slammed into the side of his head. White flashed behind his eyelids, then gray.

There was a sense of falling down. Then darkness.

 

 

  
~xXx~


	3. Chapter 3

   
  [](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)  


**The** bell above the door chimed as Sam stepped inside and proceeded to trip at the office entrance.

Stumbling in, Sam looked down in annoyance and decided to blame the green monster on the floor — a fuzzy door mat with the words 'Howdy stranger!' in bright yellow letters — rather than his wobbly, cardboard legs. The previous days of fever still robbed his body of its normal balance.

Well, so maybe he wouldn't be _running_ downtown, necessarily. But, Sam relented mentally, he could certainly walk pretty fast.

Maybe. If the walk was downhill.

The damn taxi had been a bust. They'd told him it would be an hour before they could get to his location. Sam didn't want to wait an hour. He'd been ready to try a different service when his cell had died.

Of all the luck...

In frustration, he'd come very close to throwing the thing across the parking lot, just to get some satisfaction at watching it shatter. But he didn't. Instead, he added 'a working phone' to the list of things Sam now needed as he entered the motel’s office.

Lost in her own little world, the girl behind the counter seemed oblivious to his presence. Head bent over a book on the counter, it bobbed rhythmically to some tune Sam couldn’t hear. In her right hand, the one with the fingerless glove and black nails, she twirled a blue highlighter, but occasionally stopped to snap the air at some invisible musical instrument.

A set of twin wires led from beneath her dark and thick, purple-streaked hair and down to an mp3 player on the counter. The glow from the little LED screen told Sam the source of her distraction.

The piercing on her black painted lips twitched as the occasional lyric whispered from her mouth. In a failed attempt to capture her attention, Sam bent down and noticed more jewelry; a stud in her nose, and three hoops of various sizes in her right eyebrow.

A punk-rocker; Sam had seen many at Stanford, though none quite so adorned as this one and he was willing to bet she had other piercings he could not see.

“Um,” Sam cleared his throat loudly, “excuse me?”

No response. She opened her mouth and started singing loudly, out of tune. Sam cringed.

The girl's lack of acknowledgment sent Sam's impatience boiling and he yelled, "HEY!" At the same time he tapped her shoulder, just in case.

It had the desired effect and she jumped. Hands flailed as she grabbed the ear-buds from her ears and pulled. "Shit mister!"

Okay. Make that four piercings: her tongue supported an extra hole as well.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Sam placated, hoping to calm her down. "I just need to borrow your computer for a minute. Ten tops. Look, I’ll pay you.” Sam fished in his back pocket for the wad of bills Dean had won in a pool game a few weeks ago.

“What?” The girl glanced at the PC then back at Sam. “Save your money mister, that relic hasn’t worked in ages. I keep telling Stanley, but they don’t seem to give a crap.”

Sam’s lips thinned in annoyance but he quickly changed tactics. "Can I borrow a phone? And I need someplace where I can rent a car. Oh, and a map of downtown too, if you have one." She looked questioningly at the cell still clutched in his hand. "Dead," he replied.

"Ah, bummer." She started digging behind the counter. "Not sure about the map..." she said shuffling through papers, "but I'm born and raised here. What'cha looking for?"

"Coffee shop, not sure the name. It's at the corner of Crescent and Maple.”

“A coffee shop?" Goth Chick pulled her head back from behind the corner and looked incredulously at Sam. "Man, that’s a long way to go for a cup of joe. Maggie’s is around the corner, and if you ask me, the coffee’s way better than those downtown joints. 'Specially for the price."

“No, no...," Sam shook his head, "not the coffee I need, just the shop.” When she looked questioningly at him, he added, “My brother, I was supposed to meet him there. We were supposed to work a job in the area."

"Your brother..." she said thoughtfully gazing at Sam as if trying to place him. "Short hair, hot ass, sweet ride?" she asked.

Sam hesitated. It took a minute to assure himself that by 'ride' she probably meant the Impala. But then, with Dean, stuck in a motel for days on end, probably bored out of his mind, Sam could never be sure.

That in mind, Sam kept his expression neutral as he nodded slowly. "Short hair, yeah," he said, making it quite clear what he was agreeing to.

“No shit?” All annoyance gone, she stuck out her hand and smiled. “You must be the sick brother! Sam right?” Sam tentatively shook her hand. “I’m Angie and yeah, that black, ‘67 Impala? Cherry ride man, not a car I’d soon forget.” She grinned, “Or your brother with those killer eyes."

Sam blinked at the rush of information, beginning to wonder just how much he'd missed during his bout with the flu. Sick as a dog when they'd arrived, he'd stayed in the car, head propped against the passenger side window, all but dead to the world while Dean checked them in. Just how _familiar_ had Dean gotten with this girl?

"Damn," Angie continued, startling Sam a little. "I was never so glad to lose that bet with Amy. I was sure you guys were gay — which is cool if you were, no biggie — but that brother of yours….” She smiled. "Well, that's some fine gene pool you two come from and it’d be a shame not to share with the fairer sex.”

Sam rubbed at his forehead. “This is not happening,” he muttered. There seemed no getting her off this course of conversation so he offered a resigned response. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, Dean’s not gay. Not by a long shot.”

“Cool.” Angie smiled a bit too triumphantly. “So, he's not and you're not and, in the interest of full disclosure—”

“No interest here.”

“—neither am I, you know, in case you were wondering. Well, except for my bi-curious moments, I’m more into guys. Guys like Dean."

Sam stared disbelievingly at her waggling brow, the three piercings bouncing up and down. Any other time, he would’ve rolled his eyes at the obvious Dean-worship, or shuffled uncomfortably in the face of her blatant behavior. Not now, however. He was too worried, too anxious to be moving.

“Yeah, so,” Sam tapped on the counter, trying to steer this conversation back to a less awkward, more pertinent topic, “any idea where it is I’m going?”

“What?" She said as if suddenly realizing he'd spoken. "Oh, right, Crescent and Maple.” Angie nibbled at her lower lip, rubbing idly at the piercing in her nose. “You know,” she backed up and looked behind the counter, searching, “if I could just find that paper map, I could get an idea of the area and I migh—”

“The Java Loft, dumbass!” a male voice called out.

Sam looked over Angie’s head to an office behind the counter. A young man about Angie's age emerged, hair mussed, a three-day shadow of scruff on his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days and the proud beginnings of a beer gut was outlined against his sloppy clothes, a wrinkled t-shirt with the words ‘I only party on the days ending with Y’ visible despite the food stains.

Once at the counter, he slung a backpack off his shoulder to rest heavily on the floor. A pamphlet that had seen better days was clutched in one hand. “Good coffee if you need to stay awake for exams.”

Angie huffed, “Yeah, so long as you don’t mind paying four bucks for a friggin’ cup of caffeine.” Her face wrinkled and she waved a hand in the space between she and the new arrival. “Jesus, Vince, I got one word for you: shower!”

"Sure." Vince looked smugly at her. "You com'n with?"

Angie wrinkled her nose, and took a breath, prepared to fire back. This was getting out of hand.

“Look," Sam interrupted. "I'm sorry, but I'm kind of in a hurry." Directing his question to Vince, he added, "Can you tell me how far it is to the Java Loft then? Can I get there on foot?”

“You mean like walk there?" Vince huffed. "Sure, if you wanna die.”

"Real nice, asshole." Angie glared sideways at her co-worker.

Ignoring Punk-Rock for the moment, Vince reached across the counter to point at the mass of overpasses outside the window. “See that tall overpass on top of all those other slightly less tall overpasses?" he continued. "You'd have to get across that and it ain’t exactly pedestrian friendly.”

Sam's gaze followed his gesture. In his chest, his heart caved a bit at the news.

"But this should get you there." Vince slapped the pamphlet he’d been holding down on the counter. “There's a bus schedule. Next one's in about fifteen minutes and, depending on traffic, will get there in about thirty, give or take, but at least you'll be alive to complain about it.”

"Ew, Sam, I wouldn't touch that thing," Angie eyed the grimy pamphlet. "He carries it round all the time. Probably scratches his balls with it."

"Fuck you, Angie," Vince snapped.

"You wish. Sorry herpes-boy, I wouldn't get near you with a thirty foot pole. Oh God," she blanched, "you'd probably enjoy it if I did."

The pair argued and Sam walked to the large front window of the office and stopped, staring at the uppermost overpass bridge that led toward downtown. When they'd been kids, on the rare occasions Dad had taken a job in a large city, Dean had called them 'spaghetti bowls'— a tangle of bridges all leading somewhere. Today, the one he needed would lead him to Dean, he hoped.

Chewing on his lower lip, he considered his options. They were severely limited. No help for it, he’d have to steal a car. Dean would be proud of him. Well, after he'd kicked Sam's ass for fucking around here for so long searching for alternatives.

Mind made up, Sam looked at the pair and said loudly, "Thanks anyway," and turned to leave.

“I could give you a ride,” Angie’s voice chimed in brightly.

Both Sam and Vince turned to stare, Sam finally saying, “You’d do that?”

“Sure,” Angie hurriedly gathered up her purse and pack then met Sam on the other side of the counter. “Now that Vince is here, I’m done here. I gotta head into town anyway, so," she shrugged, "let’s roll."

Vince was shaking his head. "Blind leading the blind," he grumbled.

"I know where the Java Loft is Vince," Angie threw back at her coworker. "My study group meets there once a week. I just didn't know the street names." She looked at Sam, chagrined. "Hazards of living in one place all your life, I know where I'm going but I suck at giving directions.”

Sam bit his lower lip. Still a little uncertain, so he studied Angie a moment, before centering in on her face.

Sure, she was half his size and probably less than that weight-wise, but Sam knew enough about the things that went bump in the night not to let outside appearance fool him. In the end, however, it was her eyes that convinced him. Her brown gaze didn't hold anything suspicious, just pure, open, unadulterated sincerity. Maybe a little lust too... Yup, definitely Dean's type.

Sam relaxed. "Sure, okay," he finally nodded. "I'd be grateful, thanks." He was rewarded with a smile that on her black, outlined lips, looked odd when the piercing wiggled.

Vince, his head down, pretending to look through the day’s checking cards, muttered none too discretely, “Serialkilleralert….”

Angie’s only response as she opened the door to leave was to lift her right hand, middle finger extended proudly, a clear statement of just how highly she thought of Vince's opinions.

Sam stood flat-footed a moment, still hesitant. Skeptical, he looked from Vince to Angie and then to the mass of interstate bridges outside. Then at his useless cell, not realizing he’d pulled it from his pocket or when, and that his finger hovered over the redial button. Again.

Didn't matter. Even if it was charged, his heart told him he'd only get voice mail again. Sam muttered a quiet curse.

The entrance bell sounded and he turned. Angie stood there, hand on the knob, door wide open and an expectant foot tapping on the floor. “Well? You comin’ or what?”

Sam glanced down at his watch: 11:25 a.m. "Yeah, I'm coming."

 

 

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

 

**It** was the jarring, the feeling of falling that woke him. Head aching, Dean’s world was turning, spinning, his body being moved and pushed, though he had nothing to do with any of it. _God_ his head hurt like a bitch.

Memory wasn’t in much of a hurry to return, but he knew there was something he needed to be doing. Knew there was….

Soft sobbing, childish in its youthful echoes, bounced inside Dean’s brain. It sounded close. It sounded scared. It sounded like…

The kid!

Dean was thrashing, not at all sure how successful his movement was, but he had to get the kid away from that… thing.

With great effort he pulled his eyes open. Sight did him little good; all he could make out was a form, no details, just a shape. It was moving toward him. Against his will his eyes closed again, but he still moved fists raised aimlessly.

It was a failed attempt at best, but he had to try. Pride flooded him when his left fist connected with something soft. There was a grunt. Dean was pretty sure it wasn’t him. Sluggish as he was, he’d managed to connect.

The weakness of the earlier blow proved a bigger obstacle as he fell back, his body folding into some kind of enclosure. A hole?

Then something strong held down his head, while something else pinned his left arm to his side, crushing his fingers. _Fuck!_ That hurt! The darkness sparked when pain exploded behind his closed lids, lighting up the inside of his skull.

Ok. That grunt was his.

The world that had been gray moments before was a little darker, though not completely so. There was still a chance.

Exhausted, woozy and hurting, he collapsed against whatever enclosure he’d been placed in, his eyes unwilling to open. Still, that didn’t stop him from trying.

Then, the collar of his shirt was being ripped, the chilly air prickling his exposed flesh. There was a pinch, a prick in the flesh of his left shoulder. A rush of ice flooded his veins, fanning out, digging in.

_Drugs. Dammit._

The graying world was now spinning, funneling back inward, the ebony corners curling up like burning paper. All in all, he’d rather be kicked in the head than feel the debilitating rush of drugs permeate his system.

All in all, he knew that he was fucked.

 

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**On** the drive to town, Sam learned that Angie had absolutely no filter between her brain and her mouth. At. All.

Lips moving constantly, she chattered almost non-stop about every little thing that crossed her mind. Every class she took, her profs, the last concert she'd attended and her friend Kelly and how cute she was. It was one long stream of consciousness that ended with how, once they found Dean, the four of them should go out.

Sam found himself considering unconsciousness as a viable option. He just wasn't sure whose he favored more; his own, or hers. Definitely hers.

At one point, while Sam had stared in amazement at her ability to hold such a long, drawn out, one-sided conversation, the words lost meaning in favor of the constant waggle of the piercing above her lip. The thing bounced, bobbled and twisted to the point Sam had wondered if it would fall out. Or start smoking from the friction.

Tuning out the drone of her voice, Sam looked away, gaze drifting out the window. With the phone plugged into Angie's car charger, the cord was long enough for Sam to keep the cell gripped firmly in his left hand and near his side. Mind racing, he propped his right elbow on the passenger door and stared out the window.

Angie talked on, but it didn't matter to Sam and it obviously didn't matter to her; his participation wasn't required. It was better this way; he was preoccupied with his own worries and concerns, the unrelenting questions constantly nagging at his mind. Like, what could possibly be happening that Dean couldn't answer his cell? What would he find when he found Dean? How would he find Dean? _Would_ he find Dean?

Sam shook his head; of course he would.

The longer they drove Sam found a new annoyance to focus on, other than Angie's endless gift of gab. It was the distance between the motel and the hunt. The suburb Dean had deposited them in was way too far from the area of the abductions and it was taking far too long to get there.

It wasn't like Dean to limit their easy access when there were plenty of motels downtown, or at least nearer. Sam understood though. It was that protective big brother gene that Dean practiced well and often.

Sam had been too sick to travel so Dean had stopped at the first motel he could find. It just happened to be on the furthest outskirts of town. With a place to rest and regroup, where Sam could take some time to get back on his feet, it had apparently provided convenient down time for Dean to do some research while keeping an eye on his brother.

What had Dean seen that had given him cause for alarm or suspicion? Finger in his mouth, Sam began chewing on his nail, hoping that whatever it was that had spurred Dean to action, that Sam would find an answer. More importantly, that Sam would find Dean.

“…‘bout Dean. He seeing anyone?”

The mention of his brother’s name shook Sam out of his thoughts. “Humm?” He looked at her as the car sat at yet another traffic light. Angie just stared back. “I’m sorry, what?” he tried again.

A small quirk of her lips, and Angie pointed at his phone. “Ya know, I think you’re going to wear that button off if you don't stop doing that."

It had been Angie's idea for them to swing back by their room so Sam could grab his charger. The phone was now nearly at full charged and plugged in, if Dean called, it would ring.

Sam had resumed the unconscious motion from before; his thumb rubbing over the SEND button constantly, mindlessly, Dean's number fixed on the LED screen, ready to try for the hundredth time to reach his brother. Sam sighed and stashed the phone in his pocket.

The time flashed on the screen: 12:50 p.m. Sam sighed.

“Sorry, I’m not much company," Sam said, rubbing his hands nervously on his jeans. He missed the odd look Angie gave him.

"No biggie..." Angie shrugged and stared at the unmoving cars. "Ya know, for brothers you two really seem pretty close... like inside-each-other’s-pocket close.”

Sam shrugged. “Yeah,” he offered, clearing his throat. The lack of movement in the cars around them left him anxious and with his phone tucked away, he started drumming his fingers on the armrest of the door. “I guess you could say that.”

This time Angie was quiet for a long moment, and Sam had noticed she was studying him, but he was just too distracted to care. They were on the overpass that led into the city and it was bumper to bumper traffic, and it wasn't moving. Sam felt his frustration mount.

Mired in his worry, the phone was back in his hand and he stared at it, the battery symbol on his LED screen reading nearly full. Then up to the traffic and he blew out a long breath of frustration, thoughts turning to his next move and what that might be when he got to the coffee shop — if he got to the coffee shop, _Goddamn traffic_ — and how he'd trace Dean's steps...

Then, the word's death and family and Dean and Angie's voice suddenly filtered through Sam's inner dialogue.

"... a death in the family or something?" Angie finished looking expectantly at Sam.

Sam looked at her, face blank. "What?"

She shrugged. "It's just that sometimes siblings that cling to one another like you two seem to be doing, there's a deeper reason for it. Like, a death. A tragedy that brings them closer. Is that what you and Dean have experienced?"

The audacity. It left Sam speechless and shaking his head, mouth open.

"You can talk to me, I am a psych major, after all. Hell, I've even heard of instances where siblings develop deep physical relationships over traumatic experiences, if you get my drift."

The drift was more like a snow storm in Sam's mind. He got it. He got it completely. Sam just couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Angie held his disbelieving gaze a second before blinking. "What, so… you and Dean, you never...?”

The implication was clear and Sam's jaw dropped this time. At a momentarily at a loss for words, it was a full half minute before he could render himself capable of speech.

“What? No!" Sam's voice cracked.

"Well, it's just that you seem closer than most brothers I've ever met and—"

"God... just... stop!" Sam all but shouted. Fortunately for her, she did.

Sam felt the tension in his shoulders add to the headache that had been building behind his eyes. “We just, uh, we've had some bad luck and... we've always watched out for each other. And this really isn't any of your business anyway.”

The car's interior was quiet for a beat.

“I’m sorry,” Angie backpedaled. Somehow she'd come to the realization that she'd crossed a line. “I’ve got a big mouth, like freakin’ Grand Canyon HUGE! Aside from which, everyone’s always telling me I’m blunt, too blunt. And did I mention that I talk too much? Yup, I do, so anyti—”

“Angie!” Sam snapped and pinned her with a glare.

Angie, her mouth open, mid-sentence, looked quietly back at him. Words stopping, for once.

 

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**Head** bowed and chin resting on his chest, Dean groaned. The stabbing, incessant pounding in his head was motivation enough to just embrace the fact that he had no inclination to move, even as he woozily wondered if he even could.

Dean really didn’t remember getting shitfaced last night, not that it mattered.

Experience had taught him that, whether waking from a particularly long night of drinking and sex — God he hoped there had been sex — or regaining consciousness, a feeling Dean was all too familiar with, things always were a bit fuzzy after.

_No need to panic. Just keep swimming to the surface. Keep kicking. Think._

Dean tried to force his eyes open. That didn’t exactly go as planned. They felt weighted shut, refused to budge. So, he shifted. Or tried to.

Neither his arms nor his legs would cooperate. It was like they were stuck. There was also an almost maddeningly sharp... something raking his back and while the latter seemed to be a first in Dean’s memory, albeit fuzzy, the first two seemed par for the course. He only hoped she'd been pretty.

Dean'd had some… interesting experiences in the past. Trudging through deep, quicksand memories, he could almost relate those memories to what he was feeling now. Vivid images of a blond chick dressed in red leather and handcuffs… he was pretty sure handcuffs had been involved…

Head lolling over to one shoulder, Dean grinned sloppily.

What was her name? It’d been a while, but Dean was sure that chick had a very memorable name. Something flowery… Lily? No… Rosemary?... Daisy! Damn, that had been one talented chick. It had been the first time Dean'd ever realized the benefit of a girl who could tie a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue. A very talented tongue too….

After she'd bound him upright, Daisy and her ruby red lips had descended over his groin, eyes hungrily admiring him. The lurid memory played vividly behind Dean's closed lids and he sank deeper into the images, his spine seeking a soft place to get comfortable.

 _God,_ he thought as he let himself relax deeper, _she’d had the biggest—_

"Jeeez's..." he hissed and shot forward. Limbs uncooperative, the movement didn't take him far, but it was enough to get him away from the knife-like pain at his back.

Pain had definitely _not_ been part of that particular, vivid memory. This felt like splinters digging into his skin only way worse. The trickle down his back told him just how much worse. The pointy bastards had pricked and snagged hard enough to draw blood.

Dean's brow furrowed in confusion. Headboards weren’t usually sharp and poky.

Not wanting to risk further contact, Dean held still, his body upright but wobbling like a buoy in the ocean.

Tiny alarm bells were going off in his head. The volume increased with each newfound discovery of his surroundings. But he ignored them because he really didn’t need more noise in his already addled brain.

Wobbling forward to avoid the pricks at his back, Dean’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t one to ignore warning bells, even if he wanted to. But his brain and body weren't cooperating. He couldn't get anything to fucking move.

It was like that hunt he and Sam had been on in the dunes, in Holloman, New Mexico. Each step and your legs sunk up to the knee. Running had been near impossible, but not actually an option, not with a Spring-Heeled Jack on your tail. And not with your brother down and about to get clawed to ribbons.

Dean had saved Sam's ass then. Had pushed against the sand that had threatened his progress. Dean focused on that determination and forced his body to move.

But when he tried to bend his arms regret came in the form of nearly electric pain.

“Fug…,” he slurred. In his head it had sounded right. The thick, heavy feeling of his tongue felt… wrong.

Dean wasn't sure how he'd managed it, but he got his arms to move. A little. And that little bit, Dean regretted. Instantly.

Pins and needles assaulted his arm. The all-too-familiar sensation circuited through his extremities, racing like a million tiny fire ants, biting and burning a trail under his skin. Just like that time in Texas. Dean couldn't have been more than ten years old. He'd stepped on a mound and... and...

Dean shook his head. It seemed to help some but things were still sliding in and out of place in his mind. It was so hard to focus.

Daisy, or whoever, really needed to come back now.

Limited mobility was one thing, but _sadistically_ limited movement was quite another.

Dean wriggled. “Sssonofa…”

Not only were his arms bound over his head so tightly that it went past the point of painful — definitely not an item on Dean's sexual foreplay list — but he was pretty damn sure he was on his knees.

He’d really hooked himself a wild one this time. A freakin’ sadistic one. He hoped. Anything else and he’d be good and truly fucked. In ways he didn’t think he’d like.

Dean stilled. Took a deep breath… and recoiled.

The smell sent his stomach rolling so he inhaled through his mouth and waited for it to subside. When it settled, he tried again, this time a more tentative breath—and gagged.

"Goddamn," Dean coughed. It was like a wall of putrid air: dank, moist... and shit! Was that... _shit_ he smelled?

Face wrinkled in disgust, Dean scrunched his eyes closed tighter because sight, apparently, did not want to take part in the sensory exploration... not yet, anyway.

Maybe instead of her place, they were in his room, because no chick’s place would smell like that. Well, no chick that was an actual person and not literally a chicken would smell like that. There wasn’t enough alcohol on the planet for him to consume to allow him to make _that_ big of a mistake.

In Dean's clouded mind, that left only one or two options: Sam, angry at Dean for getting hammered enough to have brought a girl back to the room, had taken a dump on the floor. Which was, well, admittedly, very un-Sam-like; or option two; maybe there _was_ sufficient alcohol on the planet but not a free room anywhere and he’d taken this chick to some barn… which wasn’t really his style, not when he had a sweet ride parked outside.

Yup. Time to find a hotel with softer sheets and warmer rooms. And maybe a different town too. One where women didn't smell like... uncooked, bathed-in-shit, chickens.

Speaking of warmer…when had it gotten so cold?

Content for the moment to his world of darkness, Dean grew more curious about his surroundings. Sight unavailable to him, he stretched his hands, deciding on a tactile exploration.

Fingers barely mobile, he pressed and prodded at the surface of whatever it was he was secured to. It didn't take long to come to his conclusion: a pole. Not a headboard, but a goddamn pole. The little metallic needles too... were on the pole... digging into him... and...

Awareness and sensations were coming back in small, lapping waves. A rattling shiver ran through his body, forcing an unwanted bout of coughing, making something painful scrape against his chest.

Movement forward was, clearly, not working, so Dean tried the reverse, leaning back against the post. He’d forgotten about the ‘splinters’. It felt like fucking horse-sized needles, sharp and pointed, digging in and grabbing hold of his flesh like starving chopsticks.

 _Dammit but the little fuckers really hurt!_ Dean’s brow furrowed and he struggled to open his eyes ‘cause really _...What the fuck?_

Dean arched his back carefully, easing away from them.

The needles were substantial; they had girth, sharp and pointy. Every attempt to breathe deep, every attempt to move forward to avoid the spines at his back forced the small sharp tips deeper into his chest.

“God…,” Dean ground out through a clenched jaw. A deep, muscle-cramping ache wracked his body.

It was an ache borne of unnatural muscle movement and shape. Perhaps from too much shivering for too damn long because he had no idea how long he’d been here, wherever here was. The chill tugged excruciatingly at his skin, raising goose-flesh on his exposed torso—

Wait. Exposed? It was an effort but he managed a small shift, noticed the feel of denim rubbing against his thighs; he was naked from the waist up.

Oh yeah, sex. Rough as _hell_ sex.

“Fuck!” Dean choked out, and his eyes finally flew open. The sharp barbs thrust deeper into his chest. The sensation of being ripped apart tore through his body.

Desperate to take his weight off the needles, he rocked back, away from the pain in his chest.

Bare skin collided with the 'prickly surface'. The impact drove the points deep beneath his skin. This time hooking on muscle. Grabbing like fishhooks onto the mouth of a distracted cat-fish. Stabbing his flesh, they dug deeper than before. This time, Dean swore he heard them scrape bone.

The pain was relentless.

Dean's mouth dropped open in a soundless shout. Head flung back he stilled, gasping, dry-sucking air as pain rocked his body. It was intense, it robbed him of breath and thought. It whited out his vision. He wanted to pass out, but he fought it, knowing instinctively that to lose himself would be worse.

So he fought it, and he fought to breathe. Fought to comprehend. Fought to remember all the painful lessons he'd learned since waking. Breath shallow. Don't lean too far forward, don’t relax against the pole either.

It was a long moment before Dean was able to talk. Able to think.

"Shit..." he managed, but it was more of a squeak because he was still trying to fight the urge to scream for all he was worth. “'K... d–definitely not…" he stuttered, with a bit more strength, "s— splinters…”

Mind still fucking sluggish, he pushed it. Harder. Working to assess just what the hell he'd gotten himself into.

There was no give of any kind to the pointy bastards embedded in his back. Whatever they were, they felt… metallic. Needles that hooked. Barbed like hooks, but thicker. Dean felt blood trickle down his back in several places where the metal hooks held.

Dean wanted to move away from the pain, but the things ripping flesh from his body kept him still.

Desperate to know just what held him in such agonizing grasp, Dean forced his eyes to focus on the metal wire wrapped around his chest. Following the vicious contraption, Dean strained his neck to see the wire disappear around his back and the wooden pole behind him.

“Fuckin’ barbed wire,” Dean gritted out.

Taking in his surroundings, Dean quickly learned where the stench was coming from. It wasn't a hotel room. It wasn’t a room at all. It was a barn. Dimly lit, dirt floor, rusted tools all around and not a single wall was anything less than rotted wood.

An old barn and not a very well-kept barn either.

There were several spools of rusted, ancient-looking barbed-fucking-wire, likely the same wire that was wrapped around the pole. They sat directly in front of him, across the room and from there, the tips of the angry barbs mocked him in the cool of the barn.

Dean realized something else too. Looking down, he saw only the tops of his knees.

It took seeing to understand it because between the cold and his position, he'd lost circulation in his legs. They weren't stretched out in front of him, not as he'd expected. Instead, he was sitting on top of them. In a kneeling position, legs folded beneath him but separated, divided by the pole at his back.

It took just the right amount of angling his head to see more. His ankles were secured with zip ties, each to a stake that was driving into the cold, packed earth of the barn.

“Great…just friggin’ great,” he panted and rolled his head to rest against the pole. At least the fucker who had strapped him like a roasted pig had left his head and neck alone. Overwhelming dizziness spun his vision and he closed his eyes, hoping the sensation would pass soon.

Dean used his cold fingers to search the skin around his wrists. He winced at the nearly unbearable itch that ran the length of his forearms. Dried blood, he was sure. Probably hours old from where the tight bindings cut into his flesh.

When his finger tips brushed against a narrow but thick plastic band, Dean's brow furrowed in concern. Further tactile exploration confirmed his suspicion; the surface of the band around his wrists was covered in tiny, symmetrical ridges.

The result was disheartening. More zip ties.

"Aw, man," Dean whined, sagging inwardly, because he didn't dare move. "This day just keeps gettin'... better 'n better."

Rope? Not a problem. Cuffs? Same. He could pretty much pick anything and he'd find something to pick it with, but zip ties? Fuck. The things couldn't be cut through with just anything, and you couldn't necessarily pick them...

Pain offered clarity and memories were coming back, like a crashing wall of waves.

The monster. The kid. The alley. "Fuck," Dean panted, punchy from exhaustion and pain. "Got the drop on me... never gonna live this... down."

Falling back on his training, Dean knew he had to make a plan. Get free. Get out of there. Find that... thing and... First things first; get the lay of the land. Assess his situation thoroughly.

Head tilted back, Dean's gaze traveled the length of the pole where he glimpsed his secured hands. Arms stretched high, the plastic ties cut mercilessly into the tender skin near his palms; blood, just as he’d suspected. Both old and fresh, it cut a trail down his arms from where the thick plastic bit into his skin.

"S-s-son of a bitch..." Dean muttered.

The guy was thorough, Dean had to admit. These were no lightweight zip ties; they were the thicker, industrial kind. And, at the juncture where his wrists joined was a length of thick, sturdy chain leading upward another foot or so to loop through a metal ring. There was very little slack in the length, but enough so that he could lean forward, away from the barbs at his back. And that's just what he intended to do.

“Okay well... that's gonna be a bitch to get out of.” Dean refused to see the scenario as completely hopeless. Just... somewhat hopeless.

Dean blinked several times, finding it hard to keep his vision clear, much less his mind. Concussions and fuzziness of brain that came with them weren't unheard of, especially in their line of work but this was different. Keeping focused on the here and now was beyond difficult. Things seemed to constantly melt in and out of time.

Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, Dean sucked air between gritted teeth. The skin at his back pulled and ripped. Oh yeah, he was still stuck to the barbed wire at his back— _that_ never really should have slipped his mind.

Much as he dreaded it, Dean knew he had to regain some kind of mobility, no matter how small. Even if it meant excruciating pain. The ability to look at his surroundings, to increase his options for escape. Pulling free from the barbs, it just had to be done.

“Well, might 's well...,” Dean panted, trying to steel himself for what he knew he had to do. This was going to hurt like a bitch. “Get this over with.”

He swallowed hard and taking one final, deep breath, expanded his chest with as much air as he could. Like diving into water, he pushed forward.

Pain. Pain and shock were the only way to describe it. Dean froze, mouth open and incapable of drawing air for the moment. Aside from the sound of his own flesh being ripped from his back, his head filled with the rush of blood, pounding in his ears.

It was a little bit like ripping a bandage off a blood-encrusted wound, but more like taking a hot burning stick and shoving against a wound to cauterize it. Both of these things Dean had experienced. Both paled in comparison to ripping one’s own flesh off of angry, fist-sized pointed metal burrs.

Once the shock passed and air filled his lungs, the next sound was that of his own agonized cry. It surpassed the roar of blood in his ears and when it seemed he had no more air left, the room grayed.

It was no use trying to stay conscious; in fact that was the last thing he wanted.

Selfishly, he welcomed the dark curtain that covered his sight and ushered him under, once more.

 

 

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**“Hey!”** Angie shrieked in surprise.

But Sam was already out of the car. Angie's shouts barely registered. The honks and shouts of the drivers whose cars he had to slide across to get by, barely registered. The car that narrowly missed him, barely registered.

What had registered was the passing time. The ticking clock. The hours since he'd last talked to Dean. The fact that he'd still been unable to reach him. Dejectedly, he'd tossed his phone down on the seat next to him. Cursing quietly.

Caught between lunch hour gridlock, and some accident they couldn't see, couldn't work around, they'd slowed to a crawl. Hours ago. Then to a complete stand still, all movement ended.

Sam's patience too, had ended.

Then, after hours of crawling, he'd caught a glimpse of the sign, up ahead and squinted: the Java Loft. Maybe a half-mile ahead. Without a word he was out the door.

Heedless of all else, Sam was running. Fully charged cell squeezed tight in his hand, he willed it to ring. Blocking out all other sounds but his ring tone, the continued silence sent fear knotting his chest.

Hopping the curb, Sam moved to the cross walk. Breathing hard. Java Loft directly across from him.

The white letters on green background might as well have been shouting at him; Dean had been there. The street sign for Crescent hanging from the pole echoed Dean's directions. The 'No Crossing' sign mocked him. Oncoming traffic, not affected by the jam, moved through the intersection.

Sam didn't wait. Wouldn't wait. A small opening was all he needed and when it happened, he bolted. He shot off the curb, his long legs taking him quickly into the fray of moving vehicles.

Shouts and honks, tires squealing, nothing slowed him down. Especially when, as he got closer, Sam spied the familiar car parked out front. Black. Sleek. Empty. No Dean.

The Impala sat in the parking space, looking lost. Forlorn. Abandoned. Moving around her, Sam could almost believe it was talking to him, telling him this was wrong. Very wrong.

There was no way Sam would tell Dean that 'his baby' talked to him. Dean would never let him live that down.

Now, he just needed to find Dean.

At the shop, he flung the door open and frantically scoured the room, restless gaze bouncing from one unfamiliar face to another. No matter how much fun he made of Dean's size, his brother was still taller than the average Joe and, therefore, usually easy to pick out amongst a crowd. No Dean.

"Dammit," Sam whispered. Then he noticed something else too; every eye in the place was on him. Staring.

Fear overrode self-conscious concern and he shoved onward, his eye catching on a familiar laptop and notebook. They sat on a table in the corner where a young woman in a blue apron, identifying her as an employee, eyed him a moment, then dropped back to her task. She was in the process of gathering up Dean's things. Their things.

“Excuse me,” Sam called. The young woman watched him speculatively as he beat a frantic path toward the table, stumbling over some chairs and one table leg in his haste. “Hey, did you happen to see where the guy went, the guy who was sitting here?”

The girl shook her head. “Not a clue. Just shot outta here like his tail was on fire. Nice tail though,” she grinned. Stacking the papers on top of the closed laptop she picked them up and Sam’s hands covered hers.

“I’ll take those,” Sam said in non-negotiable terms. “They’re mine, well, mine and my brother’s but I’ll make sure he gets them.”

Bundle in her arms, the girl pulled back, shaking off Sam’s hold. “Listen, we know this guy, and we know this stuff is important for his book, so unless you're his twin, which you aren't, I can't just give this stuff to you. I’ll just put these in the office safe and when your 'brother’ gets here, they’re all his.” With that she moved to turn away, only Sam’s hand on her upper arm stopped her.

"You don’t understand,” Sam put in quickly and held her arm tighter. Willing her to believe him, he strapped on his most pleading, innocent facade. “It’s just not like him to run off like that. Can you tell me anything? Which direction he headed in? How long ago he left? Was he alone? Did he say anything?”

“Um...,” The girl glanced nervously down at his hand, the one squeezing her arm, “he was on his cell, but the equipment’s too loud I couldn't hear anything."

"How long ago?" Sam pressed. "What happened after that?"

"Look, I told you, he just ran out the door. Alone." She started twisting slowly in his grasp. "I-I'm not sure how long ago... you're hurting my arm!”

“Oh, 'm sorry,” Sam released her quickly with the good grace to look embarrassed. “I… didn't mean to... It's just that I was on the phone with him when he was here, and now he's just... his car is right outside and I can't....”

She gazed a moment at Sam's face. Finding some modicum of sincerity in his face, she softened a little.

"What we do, _the books we write_..." Sam felt the edges of desperation closing in as he eyed the computer and papers in her arms. Her arms that were now folded possessively around them. "It's kinda dangerous. I've gotta find him. I'm sure he might have written something down, or kept a computer journal that might help. If I could just— "

"I'm sorry," she said shaking her head. “I mean, you may be telling the truth and all but I can't just give you this stuff, not without some kind of proof. I mean, this is a college town and frats and pranks abound. I could lose my job if he comes back and his things are gone. So, if you'll excuse me—”

Sam's face fell for, but just for a moment. “Wait!” he said, eyes alight with hope as he dug in his jacket pocket. “I have proof.” The phone was in his hand, plastic still warm from his unrelenting grip over the last several hours. He fumbled through the buttons a moment. “Just give me a second here.” Then his triumphant, “Here!”

Sam tilted the screen and the weary waitress leaned in hesitantly. In a second her eyes widened and she moved closer for a better look.

The girl chuckled. Not because she was looking at a picture of the cute guy that had left all of his stuff behind. No, it was a picture of a guy, asleep in a car, hair all out of place, spiked tips colored pink, and drool coming from the side of his mouth. There were several bright colored, clip-on ribbons haphazardly stuck to the ends and on the visible side of his face was a drawing of a penis.

Sam didn’t laugh. The resemblance was clear enough for him. In his mind, his inner mantra continued, _please believe me, please believe me…_.

“Okay,” the girl straightened and smiled, and for just a moment Sam claimed victory. “That’s your proof? Buddy, what part of ‘this is a college town’ did you not get? I see shit like that every day, especially during pledge week."

Sam felt his heart sink.

"So, you were close enough to the guy to get his picture," she continued, shrugging. "Big deal! I could've gotten one of him pulling one of his NC-17 faces after he tried our cake, and sold it on E-bay for a truckload of money. That doesn't prove diddly squat, so if you don't mind, you’re gonna have to—”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” A familiar, angry, exasperated voice echoed out behind them.

In unison, Sam and the girl turned.

Angie stood in the doorway, clearly seething. She slammed the door shut, the bell over the door ringing in a furious beat that matched her thunderous face. Lips pressed in a tight line, she stormed over toward them, eyes hot and angry.

Sam gritted his teeth in irritation. The longer all of this took, whatever shit his brother had gotten himself into, was only going to get worse. At this point, he was very tempted to just grab the laptop and papers and make a run for it.

However, deep down, Sam knew that even if this girl had seen nothing, perhaps someone else had. He needed to keep a cool head, take a breath, sort this out and then find Dean.

Angie stopped in front of them, her arms flapping in frustration. "I was still in the street. In. Traffic! The least you could've done is... Oh, hey Sara,” she suddenly acknowledged the coffee girl, then turned again to Sam. "Least you could've done is warned me you were gonna dive outta my car like a friggin' lunatic."

"Wait,” Sara interjected. “Angie, you know this guy?”

Angie crossed her arms and glared at Sam. “'Know' is such a strong word,” she replied, and Sam again had to grit his teeth. “I took pity on him and gave his sorry ass a lift here to find his brother.”

This was the proof he needed. Angie and the waitress seemed to know one another, Sam realized.

“I...,” Sam choked back his irritation, and dredging up his most pleading look, he implored Angie. “I just want to go find my brother. Angie, please, could you describe Dean to her so that I can have his stuff back? We're wasting time here... Please.”

In the face of Sam's very palpable fear and sincerity, Angie's anger quickly dissipated. “Fine, jeeze you're breaking my heart here,” and turned to her friend. “I'll vouch for him. His name's Sam, the other one's his brother, Dean. They're stayin’ out at the no-tel."

"I dunno..." Sara bit her bottom lip in uncertainty. Sam flapped his arms out to his side in frustration.

Angie elbowed her friend. "C’mon Sara, no way you didn’t notice this guy. Short hair, killer green eyes, and a sweet ride. Although,” she grinned lecherously. “I’ve not had the pleasure, but I sure wouldn't tell him no.”

“God, Angie,” Sara said with a grin of her own, “you’re so crass.” She canted a quick, embarrassed look at Sam and handed the laptop and papers over to his eager, awaiting hands.

“Hey!" Angie feigned an affront. "Mind outta the gutter, coffee wench. I was talking ‘bout his car… mostly.”

"Sara, please," Sam interrupted as the girls seemed to be caught up in a game of innuendo. He tucked the laptop and papers safely under one arm. "Did you, or any of your co-workers, happen to see which way my brother headed when he left here?"

“Sure, once he got to the other side of the street, he headed that way," she gestured out the window, "toward the river."

After a quick nod, Sam turned to leave, hands going to his pockets for his spare keys. Mind furiously thinking through his next step. Follow in Dean's footsteps. Maybe-

Sam stared down at the ball of lint in his hands. The pocket he usually kept his spare keys in was empty - well, except for the lint. Taking it in stride, he checked the other pocket. Again nothing.

Sam drew to a stop. Shifting the laptop and papers to his other arm he began patting down and digging furiously into every pocket of his jacket. Even the inside pockets. Nothing. Then to his jeans pockets and... nothing.

"Shit," Sam murmured, patting his ominously empty pockets.

His spare keys. In all the insanity of getting out the door. In all the panic and press, he’d forgotten the fucking his keys. Sam quickly remembered that Dean had placed a third, hide-away set in the trunk of the Impala, one just for emergencies. Only, to get to them, Sam would have to do the unthinkable...

"Lose something?" Angie called out.

God. Dean was going to kill him for this, but this _was_ , after all, an emergency.

Sam spun on his heel. "Don't suppose you've got an old wire coat hanger I could borrow?" he asked dejectedly.

Sara and Angie looked at one another, then back at Sam. Sara nodded, pointing over her shoulder. "Um. Yeah," she said uncertainly, "I'll just—" and without finishing the sentence she turned and headed toward the back.

Angie was looking at the car, not at Sam. "You're not seriously going to break into his car." She looked at Sam incredulously, "With a coat hanger?"

Sam shrugged, trying to lessen the severity of it. "Just the trunk," he sighed. Dean was going to kill him for this.

 

 

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**In** a matter of seconds Sam had the trunk of the Impala open. The scratches were hardly noticeable, Sam thought as he rubbed a thumb over a particularly deep groove. Besides, it was just the trunk. With any luck he'd find Dean and he'd use Dean's keys to get into the car and drive them both back to the motel.

Sam looked at the very deep scratch near the lock.

Sure, Dean was going to kill him, but that was kinda the point, wasn't it? Get Dean back so he _could_ be mad at him. What Sam wouldn't give for that right now...

After a quick look around, he lifted the false bottom and the first things he'd grabbed were the Desert Eagle and two clips; consecrated rounds in one, just in case, and silver bullets in the other. The latter he tapped to tighten the springs and shoved it into the grip. Then, turning his back to the trunk, he tucked the weapon into the waist of his jeans and concealed it further under his jacket.

Closing the trunk Sam nodded at Angie and Sara in the shop. Sara once again held the laptop and notebook in her hands.

Since Sam hadn't intended to take the car yet, he’d handed the bundle back to her, for the time being. Considering what he'd gone through to get Dean's things in the first place, the irony wasn't lost him. Or on Sara, for that matter.

Angie, Sam discovered quickly, was pastry-motivated.

Before heading to the car, and to make sure she didn't see him digging in the trunk, Sam had bought Angie a coffee and a piece of banana-nut cake. Dean had been right; their pastries were huge. Either way, it had worked and she'd tucked into the cake happily, and out of Sam's way.

Or, perhaps it was the chill in the air that had kept her inside. It had gotten cooler, Sam realized as the pulled his collar close around his neck.

Sam gazed in the direction Sara had mentioned. He would go on foot. See if he could figure out where Dean had gone. See if anyone had seen anything... unusual.

 

 

  
[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)


	4. Chapter 4

**Consciousness** seemed to return quicker this time. Though he found out just as quickly that it had its drawbacks; returning awareness brought with it the pain. Acute, reverberating, pounding pain that felt heavy and at once sharp and shattering.

Dean groaned. The pain in his head sent a jolt of agony down his spine and ended in his stomach like a burning lance. There, it set off waves of nausea and he brought his head up far faster than was wise.

The movement set off waves of nausea churning in his gut, forcing acid up to burn his throat, but moving was bad, something screamed in his head, so he dared not throw up. Stomach and head battled and all he could do was resist the urge to surrender to the darkness once again.

Winchesters weren't quitters, however, and he gritted his teeth, determined not to give in.

The after-effects of concussions weren't something new. He could do this. One step at a time.

First, ride it out, give it a minute, but never give in. Give his head a chance to quit sending riotous messages to his stomach. Don't wait too long, but don't think too much about time. Don't think too much, period. Thinking hurt like hell.

Second. When you're nearly there, breathe. Dean blew a determined gust of air between clenched teeth. Felt the bile settle seconds later. He ran his eyes beneath his lids, preparing to try again, licked his lips and struggled upward.

It took far more effort than it should have to lift his head and when he did, it wobbled unsteadily. But it was a step and he'd taken it. So long as he could keep it there, it was a small victory.

The next part was harder.

Like swimming in thick sand as he struggled to push past the muzzy feeling in his mind. Scooping past the grains of memories that only made his head ache more. Another forced breath and he slowly opened his eyes again. Wasn't much, just slits, but it was a start.

The little men, who’d been viciously whacking at the inside of his skull earlier, stepped up the torment. Groaning in misery, he promised swift retribution to the fucking midgets.

It took several minutes but the pounding subsided and this time Dean opened his eyes all the way. Numerous blinks later, the not-a-hotel room finally swam into focus. Head wobbling unsteadily on its axis, he gazed bleary-eyed around the room.

"Right. Barn." The recollection of his first return to consciousness struggled upward in his mind. Dean forced his eyes wider and blinked as he looked around; hay everywhere, dirt everywhere, and a… a cow?

Dean blinked several more times. Yup, a cow. "Huh," he huffed.

Hadn't seen that before. Then again, Dean hadn’t seen all that much before.

This felt like starting over. God, if every return to consciousness was this bad, he'd been clobbered pretty hard. It was the same, and yet, different. The cow, for one, was a pretty weird addition. Or maybe it was a mirage, some illusion of his severely concussed mind. If he ignored it, it would probably go away.

Coughing against the dry air, dirt and overwhelming thirst, Dean's gaze traveled the room blearily.

Farming implements, rusted and outdated, hung from the rotted wood-planked walls. A pitchfork stood against one stall, an anvil, straight out of some Saturday morning cartoon and— Jesus, it was still there. The cow. What he'd first considered a figment of his addled imagination, stood in a dilapidated stall, head down, chomping lazily at a pile of hay.

Somewhere behind him, a door opened. The sound of rusty hinges squealed against the metal and the door dragged against the dirt floor as it was forced to move.

Dean couldn't think what to do next. Not that he had a lot of choices to make, but his mind warred against helplessness, stymied by the hammering pain and sluggishness of his concussed mind.

He heard the unmistakable sound of a bolt locking. _Wait._ Dean suddenly realized. _Who the hell bolted a door from the inside?_

 _Fuck._ Dean slammed his eyes shut. Memories careening back into place. The street. The guy in the gray coveralls. The boy. The chase. Then, Dean getting his clock cleaned...

Ah yes, he remembered. Perverted monsters that snatched kids from the middle of the street in broad daylight, and then grabbed hunters dumb enough to let themselves get grabbed. That's what locked doors from the inside.

 _Fuck._ Dean closed his eyes and dropped his head. Feigning unconsciousness. In effort to maybe buy some time, get his head clear, get a better look around...

Dean felt like a dumb-ass. Because unless this _thing_ was a fucking moron, no way it would buy his unconscious act. Far as Dean knew, unconscious people didn't usually keep their back's arched to avoid contact with a barbed pole. They were usually too busy being... unconscious.

Still, like a kid faking sleep to get out of having to go to school, Dean gave it a shot and let his head drop down.

Footfalls approached, muffled by the dirt floor.

The sound of the door slamming shut still bounced around in his head, making him wince. Committed to his course, Dean feigned unconsciousness.

The footsteps stopped close by. There was rustling. The sound of something rusty creaked in front of him. Dean was just starting to wonder....

A cold, wet slap that hit him from head to knees cut off all thought.

The shock of the cold fluid nearly sent him reeling back, against the spikes.

“What the…,” he choked out, gasping. Water, icy cold, cascaded down his face and chest, seeping into the waistband of his jeans.

It left a coppery tang in his mouth.

After a quick shake of his head that sent water droplets flying, Dean’s vision swam slowly back into focus.

The room still tipped a little, but his vision fixed on a pair of work boots, then traveled up to a pair of legs encased in gray coveralls and then to a set of slim shoulders. The visual ended with possibly the most non-scary _monster_ he'd ever seen.

Back on the street, in the heat of pursuit, in the hurry to capture, he hadn't gotten close enough to really see its features clearly, except for the clothing and the pair of glasses on the guy’s face. Now, however, up close, even in the harsh, single-bulb light of the barn, Dean was dumbfounded.

The thing couldn't have been more than five feet, five inches tall. It stood, legs apart, looking menacingly down at him through horn-rimmed glasses, head topped with gleaming, jet-black hair that, even in the dimly lit room, gave off a dark blue sheen. The hair was slicked back and receding.

On one side of his chest, in the pocket was… a plastic pocket protector. Dean licked his lips; a slow tug began on one side of his mouth.

Admittedly, it probably wasn't the wisest thing to do, being trussed up and all, but Dean couldn't help it. First thing he did... was chuckle.

The guy looked like a harmless, dull, geeky librarian, though the barbed wire and Dean's bound position suggested otherwise. In his mid thirties, Dean guessed, with thinning hair and deep wrinkles on his face. Had to be the lamest choice in monster-look Dean had ever seen.

The thing stared quietly, dispassionately back at Dean.

In the protracted silence, Dean couldn’t help but stare. It was more than the cliché librarian look. He’d _seen_ this guy somewhere else before. But when the silence became too much and the thing seemed unwilling to offer more, Dean made his own noise.

"Man, you have _got_ to be kidding me," Dean smirked up at the thing, his eyes sparkling with equal parts mirth and trepidation. _"Revenge of the Nerds?_ Really?" Nerd-guy responded with a confused dark look. "Well,” Dean shook his head. “I guess it makes you real easy to underestimate, so props to you."

It was a good disguise. After all, how many people had ever heard of killer librarians?

Dean looked closer at its clothes. Something like a janitor would wear. Maybe one of the schools, or one of the city workers he'd— Jesus, he dropped his chin to his chest. Head pounding, it hurt just trying to dig out of all the images dancing through his mind. Faces he'd seen. People he'd talked to.

Mouth drawn in a stern line, nerd-guy angled his head right, then left, studying his captive. Dark eyes moved from the top of the post where Dean's hands were bound and traveled down, gliding over Dean’s arms and shoulders, then to his chest. Lower still and Dean found himself struggling not to shift under the heated examination.

"Like what you see?" Dean taunted, eager to relieve the uncomfortable silence. The intensity of nerd-guy's gaze was unnerving, but Dean refused to recoil from his inspection.

Nerd-guy's gaze latched onto Dean's, held a moment before he sidestepped his prisoner and moved to stand beside him.

Dean faced straight ahead, swallowing his discomfort and fear, refusing to give the thing the satisfaction of following its every move.

Judging by the look in the thing’s eyes, it wasn't real likely that it was moving around to check the bindings, to make sure his legs were still tightly trussed to the spikes in the ground. No, judging by the heated gaze, it was more likely he was checking out Dean's ass.

Just what he needed, a horny shapeshifter...

Dean swallowed. The idea of this thing checking him out made Dean’s skin recoil and tingle with a intense need to punch the thing’s eyes out. Only the ladies were allowed to admire his physical qualities, not some psychotic, kid-raping, sick-o perverted creature that shed skin for a living. _Fucking perv..._

Certainly made sense, though considering what this thing did for fun, Dean's mind screamed, _Oh, hell no..._. He tamped down on any outward show of fear and said, "Not to be a buzz-kill or anything but, aren't I just a bit too old for you?"

That wasn't true. He totally wanted to be a buzz-kill, kill any idea this thing had of giving him the same treatment he’d given those kids. Actually, Dean was eager for the bastard to try, just so Dean could teach it a lesson in dating-manners. Dean fisted his hands; kill this thing, that's exactly what he wanted to do.

Perv either wasn't listening or just didn't care to comment. He was quiet. Too quiet. Dean hated quiet.

"What are you, mute?" Dean asked, the uncomfortable silence making him antsy. In his stubborn resolve to stare straight ahead, he missed the moment Perv drew back one booted foot... "Great. All the fucked up, whack-job monsters in this word and I—"

The boot kicked out. The steel tip slammed painfully into the side of Dean’s ankle. Pain exploded up his leg as the impact made him jerk against his bindings.

"Shit," Dean hissed. Teeth gritted against the pain, he fought against a larger outcry. Back arched to keep it from making contact with the barbed wire, he rode out the pain, wondering if the sound of bone breaking had been in his mind or in his leg.

Riding the fresh haze of agony, the pain lancing up his leg, Dean was sure he heard Perv let lose a mirthless chuckle. _Fucking bastard._

“You know,” Perv said icily, “you really ought to learn when to keep your mouth shut.” His voice was thin, nasal and eerie in the thick cold air.

Dean groaned and rolled his head, slating his eyes open to stare at his tormentor. “Quiet’s...," he began, grinding his teeth so hard he was sure they'd shatter, "not really one of my strengths.”

"Your," Perv sent a quick glance at Dean's ankle, "Achilles heel, as it were."

"Ah." Teeth gritted in pain, Dean glared. "You're a _funny_ perverted monster; just my luck."

Even with restricted circulation of his position and numbing cold, his ankle continued to pulse angrily. Stopped from visually assessing the damage when the barbs wrapped around his torso dug viciously into his chest, Dean held still. On blind assessment, the pain level left him fairly certain that his ankle was either broken or at the very least, sporting an enormous bruise.

"Trust me," Perv's voice oozed, his breath visible in the cold. "You'll lament the absence of silence very soon."

Dean knew that between the way he was bound and the frigid temperature in the barn, he needed to keep circulation to his bound extremities. Movement, even small ones, hurt like a bitch but he knew it would help so he persisted.

It was a slow process, starting with his fingers. He flexed them, felt the slow trickle of blood down his wrists, but he kept at it. They were bound high overhead and when he tried to flex his elbows he had to be careful. The movement forced him back and that was not where he wanted to be. The barbs on the pole were a constant reminder of that.

It was when he got to his feet that Dean paused. Thanks to Perv's kick, there was enough sensation in his feet for him to know it was dirt that he felt. The loose-packed earth moved freely beneath and between his toes.

"The fuck...?" Dean muttered.

Curiosity pushed past his better judgment and he forced himself to turn. The pain was instantaneous; metal barbs at his chest dug in deep. But he saw enough of his dirt-covered bare feet before he whipped back around and glared angrily at Perv.

"Dude," Dean gasped, breathless from the pain as the movement had driven the barbs deeper into his chest. Still he managed to glare at Perv. "The hell are my boots?" he demanded as fresh blood dripped down his torso.

"Your boots. Now there's a conversation starter. See, it's been my experience that Feds don't wear biker boots." Perv leaned in close. "You, Dean, are not a Fed."

Pain focused his mind and Dean thought furiously. Fed. Dean had been posing as a fed for the last three days, as he’d talked to everyone and their mothers about the missing kids. It meant this thing had at some point over that time, brushed elbows with him. But where? When? How?

Dean decided not to give away how little he knew. "Yeah?" he said, notching up his chin defiantly. "Well, in my experience nerdy janitors don't go around kidnapping and molesting little kids. So, this little cloak and dagger thing? It goes both ways, you son of a bitch."

Perv leaned in and tapped Dean on the forehead. "Guess we both have a lot to learn from each other then.” Straightening he smirked and moved in a wide circle around behind him. "You're not going anywhere any time soon. So get comfy."

"Comfy?" Dean huffed. "I’d hate to see what you considered not-comfy, 'cause this is pretty damn far from comfy."

"It's relative," Perv said, his voice was slightly strained, then his breathing became labored, as if he were breathless from exertion. "Look around you. Comfy and not-comfy aren't really an issue, unless you're livestock."

Not being able to see what Perv was doing kept Dean's overactive imagination on edge. Given the things Dean had seen over the years, the information he had on this monster's conquests, the images were beyond horrific. A cold shiver snaked down his back.

“So, what next?” Dean asked, trying to play it cool even though everything in him wanted to track where this guy was, but that would show fear and uncertainty. "Oh, I know, why don't you start by telling me what you are, huh? So I know what to use to kill you, you know, when I get free."

No response, just more muffled footsteps in the dirt. Of course, Dean being bound and completely at this pervert's mercy was fucking petrifying so he'd much rather focus on this. This nothingness.

“You know, never mind," Dean said, having reached the conclusion that if Perv wasn't going to talk... “How about you cut me loose and we go at this one-on-one. Man to man —er — monster? I could totally take you."

"Actually, we're going to have us a little talk, you and I." Perv's voice sounded all business-like, almost clinical. Creepily calm.

Dean had been in awkward, terrifying, helpless positions before, so he just did what came naturally and held on to two constants in his life: resourcefulness and Sam. Because, one, Dean was a resourceful kind of guy who’d gotten out of many a tight spot on his own, _thankyouverymuch_. And two, if Sam wasn't trapped with him, he was out there somewhere and he wouldn’t stop looking until he found Dean.

Whichever of those happened first, all Dean had to do was hold on. Keep his cool. _And, never let the bad guys know how over a barrel they really have you._

"Talk? Oh sure," Dean tried for a casual tone but it was hard when he was caught between two sets of barbs and exhaustion was closing in. "But it'd be a lot easier to talk if you cut me loose. See, it's a bit uncomfortable and—"

There was a rush of air, so sudden it cut off Dean's thoughts. Unwanted warmth pressed in close to his back.

“You're not getting this, so let me spell it out for you,” Perv said, his proximity evident when he spoke right next to Dean's ear. Definitely too close; his hot breath clouded the air in front of Dean. “Your comfort is the least of my concerns."

Light caught on something and glinted in Dean’s periphery. Warning bells went off in his head. He jerked his head around to get a look.

A syringe.

Before Dean could react, Perv reached around with his free hand and slammed his captive's head back against the pole. The impact set off stars behind Dean’s closed eyes.

Mouth lax, Dean didn’t get a chance to catch his breath when something rough was forced between his lips and into his mouth. It was shoved past his teeth and over his tongue, pulling so tightly against the corners of his mouth that Dean could feel the skin there split.

“Ngh...” Dean tried too late to protest. Too late to move because his spine was forced back against the barbs, adding to the pain in his head. To the pain of the cloth that was secured around his jaw.

“Nice and tight for me." Perv tugged on the knot that secured Dean's head to the pole. "Can’t have you moving around, can I?”

Dean forced his eyes open. Things swam in and out of focus but he could still see the syringe. Could see Perv grinning.

“Now, hold still. Don’t want to spoil my aim 'cause if I jab this in your tongue rather than under," the threat left Dean uncertain as to whether to move or not, "our conversation will have ended before it's begun.” Then the syringe was lowered toward Dean’s face.

Dean's eyes widened with panic.

It renewed his efforts and he bucked, heedless of the barbs ripping at the skin on his back. Against the suffocating closeness of Perv as he crowded in, squeezing his head like a vise to keep him still. The limited air flowing with the gag in his mouth. Perv's hand clamped on his throat, purposefully cutting off his air.

Dean’s eyes crossed over his nose as he tried to follow the progress of the sharp instrument. He couldn’t sense it past his lips, but he could certainly feel its cold touch as it nudge the edge of his trapped tongue, wedging itself underneath. Entering slowly.

Just as the needle breached the soft pocket of skin beneath his tongue, the choke hold released. Nothing had prepared him for the pain as the needle sunk in deep. Nothing had prepared him for the dizzying agony. Nothing.

It was excruciating. It would have held him in place even if he hadn’t been bound tightly.

Dean heard himself scream in his head. Couldn’t have stopped it if he’d wanted to.

Even with his eyes screwed shut he still knew the moment the plunger was depressed; felt the rush of liquid and a metallic taste flooding his mouth. Dean exhaled heavily through his nose. Something wet trailed down the sides of his mouth.

The needle hurt just as badly coming out. But it didn’t matter. Dean’s head and mouth were released from the cloth and he lurched forward, stopped by the barbed wire securing his chest to the pole.

“You son…” The taste of copper filled Dean’s mouth and he spat; blood-tinged saliva landed on the ground next to him. More coated his lips. “…Son of a bitch.”

Even as he spoke Dean felt it. The sensation, cold and foreign. It fanned out rapidly. He felt it as it slithered under his flesh. It coursed and rode the channels of his blood stream.

Dean tried to focus. Tried to glare at Perv. The drug was taking him fast. Hard. Shifting his vision. Making his skin spark and crawl.

Perv was squatting directly in front of him and already the bastard’s face started to contort and pulse, slowly. Dean knew it was the drugs, but it was like riding on a choppy sea and his stomach rolled with the undulating waves.

The pain in his back notched up tenfold. Head too. Everything. The pain was nearly unbearable and Dean struggled with the weight of it all.

 _Get it under control, Dean,_ he murmured to himself.

Leaning into the wire wrapped around his chest he panted, head hanging. Something fisted in his hair and his head was lifted. Dean slowly opened his eyes. Perv was close. Too close.

"Control?" Perv leaned in closer. "That's the last thing you'll ever have again, Dean. See, between what that drug's doing to you and what I'm going to do to you, by the time we're done, you'll tell me whatever I want to know."

Dean blinked rapidly. Realizing he'd spoke that inner mantra aloud.

"Keep dreamin'..." Dean panted, glaring at Perv. "'M not tellin' you shit."

"Ah, but you will, you will," he assured. Perv's face went serious. He twisted Dean's head left, then right, examining his eyes. “Perfect,” he nodded with a self-satisfied smirk.

Releasing Dean's head, Perv seemed disinclined to move very far away. Still too close and it was all Dean could do to hold still, to not move back and impale himself again on the prongs.

Briefly, a part of him considered it might be worth the pain to distance himself from Perv’s intense, dead eyes. The creep was so close Dean could feel the weight of them ooze across his skin. The heat of his breath too, it made his flesh burn–

Dean shook his head. Whatever drug Perv had given him was making him way too sensitive.

Fact was, Dean never ducked from a fight. Never.

"What'd you give me?" Dean panted, blinking furiously to keep his sights even and his thoughts in line. "Some kind of mind fuck drug? A truth serum?"

Perv leaned further into Dean's personal space, something he’d have sworn was impossible. When Dean flinched, Perv chuckled. "More the first than the second, but the truth is the eventual outcome."

The bastard breathed into Dean's face, and this time, he was able to control his reaction with nothing more than a grimace. "Really? I have one truth right here for you, sick-o… your halitosis is killing me."

"Hmm..." Perv nodded. It was like he was trying to test Dean's reactions. "That drug was just a little something to make you a bit more... receptive to my powers of persuasion," he said distractedly. "To my presence."

Then, to make his point, Perv leaned to one side and blew a long gush of hot air across Dean's right shoulder. Unprepared, Dean jerked away, as if he'd been struck.

"Dammit," Dean muttered and looked away. Angry with himself for his momentary loss of control. For revealing that something so simple as Perv's breath ghosting across his flesh left a trail of fire in its wake. Left him jumpy, his heart racing.

"Now… where were we?" Perv said after a brief pause. "Ah yes, that conversation." There was a length of cloth in his hand, a blue ratty piece that the man was distractingly twirling around in his fingers. "You see, I don't like puzzles."

"Couldn't 'gree with you more," he nodded. "Ya' see, I'm a," he cleared his throat, "I’m more of a... a maze-man m'self. You like mazes?"

"You think this is a joke," Perv said flatly. It wasn't a question. It was a statement, level and dangerous.

“Oh, right, right," Dean muttered, nodding. "Almost forgot, you… things don't have a sense of humor, though in that outfit?" He shook his head, "'s kinda surprising."

Perv stood abruptly and gazed down at his captive. "Allow me to elucidate," he said, then turned and strode away.

"No need to ask for my permission," Dean called to Perv's retreating back. "Just remember to wash your hands after, just like momma taught you." Too busy smirking at his own joke, he missed the slight flinch in Perv's shoulders.

Instead, Dean gazed lazily at the cow, watching as its jaw sawed back and forth on a pile of hay in its stall. A rustling sound drew his gaze back to Perv, who'd removed a bag from a hook in the adjoining stall and walked back.

Stopping only a few feet from Dean, Perv reached in and removed a small stack of billfolds. "Look familiar, Dean?" Perv said as he took one off the top and held it up.

Recognition was immediate, but Dean thought it best to remain quiet. It was one of his fake IDs; he'd carried four with him on this job, not really sure which he'd need in some of the areas he'd hit.

Perv opened it and glanced at the inside. "Dean Tyler, is it?” he asked, then tossed it to the ground and opened another. “Or is it Dean Perry?" He repeated the move and opened the next. "Or Dean Bonham?” Each name was punctuated with the flash of a different fake ID until they lay in a heap on the dirt floor.

All but one made it to the pile on the dirt floor.

Dean swallowed, noting how the edges of his vision had crystallized. "What can I say?" He grinned and since he couldn't move much, bobbed his eyebrows. "I'm a chameleon."

"You're so much more than that." Perv squatted down. "You're a dead man."

"Wait." Dean blinked, hoping to cover his growing weakness. "Thought you said I was a puzzle." It was no use, his eyes still refused to focus. "Dude, make up your mind. Things are getting very confusing."

It came out cocky, but it held more truth than not. Along with his sight, his mind too seemed to lack focus. It seemed to be a step behind on everything. Though, the last billfold he tracked perfectly, watching as Perv tapped it to one open palm idly.

"There are a _lot_ of interesting fake IDs here _Dean_ ,” Perv continued, ignoring Dean's comment. “Though, this one," he said waving the last one in his hand. "This is the one I've seen you flash most."

Dean swallowed. He knew which ID that was, and Perv was right. It had become his primary cover in town. That meant so much more than he’d realized before. Not only had he attracted this guy's attention; he'd probably been stalking him.

Dean was suddenly glad their motel was so far outside of town. It was very unlikely that this monster had followed him that far from its feeding ground. Sam would be safe.

The last wallet open, Perv read, "Dean Barrett, Federal Bureau of Investigation." Then added looking at his prisoner, "Now, since the first name’s the only common denominator in that pile of crap I'll just assume that much is true."

Riding his lack of focus, an overwhelming sense of vulnerability and defenselessness swamped Dean's thoughts. This feeling was one he'd usually associated with having his brains pushed around inside his head by blunt force. Or with too much liquor.

But this was different. This left his skin crawling. Left every physical discomfort magnified and intensified. What the hell had this guy doped him with?

"Give the man – er... thing a cookie," Dean murmured.

"So, _Dean_ ," Perv continued, walking around the pole, around his bound captive, "in fourteen years, no one has ever put the pieces together... no one's taken an interest in me..."

Bad-guy monologues were usually a pain in the ass, but this one Dean welcomed. Maybe the guy’s endless rant would bring some of the answers that Dean was so sorely fresh out of.

"I was careful to cover my tracks." Perv said, stopping in front of him again. "But now, you've come along. Far too close to connecting the pieces, further than anyone else– well, except for one, but I took care of him, just as I will take care of you."

"Take care of me?" Dean blinked rapidly. Needed to clear the little halos from the images surrounding him. "Well, you're real sweet 'an all, but you’re just not my type. 'Fraid I draw the line at dudes and monsters. You just happen to be both, so… sucks to be you."

Just for a second, the barest hint of time, Perv's face held an odd look. A chink in the armor.

"I've worked carefully to stay under the radar," Perv continued. "Kept my victims selective and planned. My cover perfect. The evidence minimal. And now, here you are."

"Yup," Dean grinned cockily. "Here to kick your ass. That I haven't forgotten. Looking forward to it."

"Ah, you see," Perv bounced a finger in Dean's direction. "There’s my problem. Given how completely screwed your ass is, you are far too confident. Especially for a man in your predicament, Dean.”

“I’m just a naturally confident person.” Dean tried a disarming smile.

It failed miserably. Perv's eyes remained flat, unimpressed but constantly appraising. A clear sign he was still trying to figure him out. And most importantly, that he hadn't bought any of Dean's bullshit.

"In your situation," Perv finally said, "confidence usually means you have hope. Looking at you? Hope," he shook his head, "hope is the last thing you should have."

Dean tried to look bored. "Guess you could say I'm a...," he licked his lips, "glass-half-full kinda guy." His skin was crawling. The cuts and tears at his back were screaming in pain.

A smile that looked more like a grimace creased Perv's face. "Which leads me to believe someone's going to be missing you, Dean. When that happens, it means someone is going to come _looking_ for you."

Shit. That had hit too close to home. If Dean let it slip that he had a brother... the stakes had suddenly become far too high. The drugs seemed far more threatening now. If he couldn't keep his head in the game, if he couldn't keep his mouth shut...

...This thing would go after Sam next.

"Me?" Dean huffed. "Buddy, take a good look and tell if I look like someone who shares his ‘toys’." Dean figured he could stick to some of the truth, maybe embellish it a little bit. "My mom died when I was a kid and dad exchanged me for a bottle of Jack even before I knew how to tie my own shoelaces. Learned to make do, dude. Not gonna start answering to nobody now. I'm all alone."

Perv appraised his prisoner. "Then you're someone’s daddy...."

Dean rolled his eyes in thought. "Nope. I'm careful."

"Or maybe someone’s uncle," Perv glossed past the reply. "With an upset sibling, angry or distraught over a missing nephew and an inept police department. A vigilante.”

Dean laughed mockingly. "Man, have you got the wrong guy."

"I don't think so." Perv moved around his prisoner, back where Dean couldn't see him. "You chased me down. You showed up at my job, snooping around."

His job? Dean had been all over the damn city, talked to lots of people. Where had he bumped into this guy?

Dean turned his head to the side but otherwise held still. "Mind being a bit more specific? It’s been a long week, and, ya' know, you drugged me and I have this really bad headache, also thanks to you, by the way. I just can't place where I might've seen your ugly mug before."

Something squeaked behind him and this time Dean controlled his need to satisfy his curiosity. To maintain his carefully constructed look of nonchalance and boredom.

"I wouldn't exactly say we 'met' _per se_ ," Perv's voice came from a small distance behind him. The squeaking sound was getting nearer too, louder. "But I would say you've gotten very close. Too close."

The source of the squeak moved around him and Dean realized the sound belonged to a set of wheels, badly in need of oiling. And the wheels belonged to a three-tiered metal cart that Perv maneuvered to stop a few feet in front of his prisoner.

It looked like one of those carts used in hotels that actually had room service. Like that one he and his dad had stayed in during that job in Chicago. Ghost in the old hotel building. Even got paid for that job.

"Ah, thank god, I'm starved," Dean said. Sweat was pouring down his face, neck and chest. Salt water stinging as it hit the torn flesh on his chest. It didn't fit with the fact that he could see his own breath. "Room service. Steaks medium rare, just like I like 'm."

The bottom shelf held something long and narrow with a cord, but it disappeared under the shadowy confines of the other shelves above. The bad lighting didn't help either.

The center tier held several small plastic receptacles and whatever was in them was kept hidden by the hard plastic sides. While from his position Dean couldn't see what was on the top shelf, he'd heard the sound of something metallic rattling as the thing rolled on the bumpy surface.

"You look warm, Dean," Perv observed from where he stood behind the cart. He eyed his prisoner, gaze trailing down Dean's torso, watching the sweat snake its way down to the top of his jeans.

Truth was, Dean was hot. Not a good hot either, a bad hot. Too hot. And, given how his and Perv's every breath was visible in the badly lit barn, Dean knew how bad the heat beneath his skin was.

"Dude," Dean licked his lips, "I'm always smokin' hot."

The look on Perv's face came and went so fast Dean was uncertain he'd even seen it. It hadn't been that same look of disgust and loathing he'd been getting since he'd regained consciousness. This was almost appraising, admiring.

Dean was really beginning to worry.

"Strange," Perv added as he stepped to the side of the cart and stared down at the metal surface. The move blocked whatever extended view Dean thought he might get of the contents. "Considering the temperature's nearly below freezing."

"Really?" Dean tried a nonchalant smile. "Hadn't noticed."

Perv didn't comment, not that Dean had expected him to. Engrossed in the contents of the cart he remained silent until... "Ah."

In the hazy light of the room Perv picked something off the surface and turned to the side. It was metallic and shiny enough to glint in the dim lighting. "Thought I'd lost it."

Dean tried to see what it was. It shouldn't have been that hard to focus; the thing was only a few feet away. Squinting against the suddenly bright light he stared.

The single bulb, it cast halos off everything, especially the thing in Perv's hand.

Dean finally got his vision clear and froze.

Perv held a three-inch blade. Dean'd seen the likes of it before. They weren't for killing fast; they were for shallow cuts and slow blood letting. Torture. This did not bode well in his plan to buy enough time for Sam to find him… and even worse for his plans of escaping.

Fuck.

Perv angled his head and studied him. "My, my, my, you don't look at all well, _Dean_." Mock concern laced his voice. "So, let’s start with an easy one, shall we? Your real _last_ name. What is it?"

Dean blinked frantically, desperate to clear his sight. Find his train of thought, his bearings. Something was wrong with this picture. It was a struggle to piece it together.

Perv stared at him with that dead gaze, clutching the three-inch knife in his bare hand, twisting it idly, carelessly. It was mesmerizing they way the light caught on the shiny metal on occasion. And it was wrong. Winchester wrong.

"I'm not a patient man, _Dean_ ," Perv reminded, gazing at the knife. Dean was really beginning to hate the way this thing said his name.

Slowly the incongruity of the scene slid into place. If Dean hadn't known better, he'd have sworn that thing was pure silver. No way a shapeshifter would be holding the very thing that could kill it. Didn't make sense. Suddenly, nothing did.

Dean pretended to think a moment. "Well, see I can’t afford to be at any more of a disadvantage than I already am, so, tell you what," he feigned an affable tone, "I'll tell you mine if you'll tell me yours–"

Perv rushed at him. Dean blinked, jerked his head back. One of Perv's hands shot out, grabbed the base of Dean's skull, checking his retreat. The one with the knife held the blade's edge pressed just under Dean's lower lip.

"Disadvantage?" Perv hissed, his face close, red with barely controlled rage. "You don't get to ask questions, Dean," he said between gritted teeth. The edge of the blade trailed along Dean's jaw. "This is my time. My rules. My house."

"House? You live here?" Dean's eyes rolled, taking in the room. "You should have a talk with your interior decorat–"

The blade dipped down and pressed hard at the base of Dean's neck.

"Don't," Perv spit. "Fuck. With me."

Anger welled up inside Dean. The helplessness. The fear he'd accidentally let slip something about Sam. Give something up. The wrongness of how drugs made him feel. All of it just rankled him to the core.

Dean didn't do helpless. The need to fight back overwhelmed him.

"Right back at'cha, shithead!" Dean snapped back. The angry, pissed, fed-up voice he’d been going for came out hoarse and gravelly. It had an edge, though and that was pretty much all he had at the moment.

Perv flared in surprise, but the heat and anger intensified. The knife pressed harder. Just splitting the skin. "Shut up," he hissed in warning.

"Fuck you!" Dean shot back. "What’d you do with the kid, huh?"

Dean was just too angry to care; he ignored the threatening blade that pressed deeper at each word. If Perv had just wanted him dead he wouldn't have gone to the trouble of dragging him here.

"He is none of your concern."

"The hell he isn’t! I’m makin’ him my concern. And every other kid you… fu–” Dean couldn’t bring himself to say the word. The thought of it drove bile from his stomach to his mouth. “You touched; every one you killed is my concern!"

“You should be more concerned about yourself. Here. Now.”

“Fine. Let’s start here,” Dean growled. He leveled Perv with a calculating stare, squinting against the haloing light. “What are you? Ogre? Shapeshifter? Or just some fuckin' nutjob who's keeping an aswang as a pet? If that's true, lemme tell you pal, those things will turn—”

The blade swooped down. Faster than Dean could blink.

A deep gash lay open and bleeding along his collarbone. The agony was instantaneous. A pained hissed escaped from between his teeth but he ground them together.

Perv was in his face. "You don't listen very well, do you?" he snarled, spit coating his lips. "You don't ask questions. I do."

Dean had him. He was frazzled. Off-balance.

And far more dangerous than Dean realized.

The wound on Dean's collarbone pulsed in radiant pain. Deep enough to bleed, it wasn't enough to kill and shouldn't be causing him that much pain....

"My teachers always said I had an attention deficit."

"Well, pay attention to this." Perv leaned in closer. "You're gonna die, and it's not a matter of _if_ , but _when_. All you get to decide is how bad it’s gonna get." The tip of the blade ghosted over his flesh, moved down his chest; Perv's eyes followed its trek. "How bad is it gonna hurt? How long is it gonna last?"

Dean blinked. Concussions, drunks, even morphine highs - Dean was no stranger to those. The disorientation and hazy mental states were nothing new. This… This was different. Never had he had so much trouble thinking. Focusing. This drug was doing a number on him and he'd better get his head on straight or this would go south fast.

"So lemme get this straight." God, it was a challenge just to think the right words into a simple sentence, let alone push them out his mouth. "I talk, I die. I don't talk, I die. Dude, tha's not much incentive to do anything you wan' me to do."

The kid Perv had taken from the city was likely here somewhere; Dean had to keep it together for him. And for Sam. Keep him off Perv's radar.

Dean glared back at Perv defiantly.

It was a struggle to stay still and let this thing play out. Let it spill its end-game. But, when he felt the business end of the blade press into his navel, Dean froze.

"You have to ask yourself," Perv's eyes locked on his, leaning closer, flush with Dean's jaw. Studying it. "Just how much blood can you stand to lose before I'm done?" Suddenly his warm breath wafted across Dean's ear. "I'm good at pain, Dean, make no mistake. You'll shout yourself hoarse before I'm done bleeding you out."

"Dude, is that your tongue in my ear?" The need to gain back some control was overwhelming and Dean shoved his head aside. He smirked at Perv. "You know, I met a dog like you once... all bark, no bite... a slobbering mess too."

The silence was heavy. Perv's face darkened.

The expected blow didn't come. The blade at his gut didn't advance. Instead, Perv went still. His eyes went flat. Cold. Uncaring.

Funny. Until that moment, he hadn't realized it but there had actually been some warmth in them. Twisted and psychotic, but warmth nonetheless.

Dean shivered. His smirk faltered when a sharp pain cut into his facade. Left thigh screaming in discomfort. Then, the discomfort increased, agonizingly, slowly.

It wasn't a stab, it was a press. It was the knife. Perv shifted again and another centimeter buried itself beneath the flesh. "Told you," Perv said, the blade advancing slowly. An inch and a half now buried beneath the flesh of his thigh.

Dean stiffened. Pain receptors firing and he sucked in a breath.

"I'm very good at pain," Perv whispered in his ear, breath too hot, scorching. The knife moved deeper. Two inches now, blood flowing freely, filling the knee of his jeans.

It was on the tip of Dean's tongue to fire something back but the pain sharpened acutely. It wracked his brain and robbed him of thought. Perv didn't so much move as he did shift. The tip pressed slowly, agonizingly into his flesh.

Unable to control himself, the pain left Dean shaking. He fought to stay still. Two and a half inches of the blade now buried into his thigh, and more to come. The thing might as well have been eight inches long.

Not for the first time that day, Dean gritted his teeth and thought, 'Fuck!'

 

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**Sam** made to step off the curb, but a car horn, far too close, too loud, blared and he quickly pulled back.

The breeze tugged at Sam's hair as the car blew past. Sam watched, adrenaline surging at the near miss. The echo of the horn as the sound bounced off the high city walls, filtering off into the distance, labeled him a reckless jackass.

Around him, Sam saw the effects were fleeting. People who'd stopped to watch, checking for the possibility of a gory and bloody show, lost interest over the aborted crisis and quickly lowered their gazes, going back to their own self-absorbed lives.

Sam exhaled a breath, equal parts frustration and relief, and took a moment. He looked up and down the busy street. He needed to calm down; he’d be no use to Dean if he were dead, or laid up in a hospital somewhere.

After a steadying breath, he waited for the light to change. Whatever gridlock had kept traffic backed up before, was gone. Over-eager drivers, stuck for too long behind the wheel and delayed from their destinations, were moving by fast.

Waiting with the rest of the pedestrians to cross, a standout amongst the crowd in height alone, Sam's fists kept opening and closing of their own accord, foot tapping impatiently. The internal patience pep-talk died the second the light changed. The light had barely turned green and Sam was off, moving easily in the foot traffic, eyes scanning the direction he would head, cell phone in his hand.

While he moved in long strides on the walk, Sam’s eyes never stopped roving the buildings, the area around him. The odd smells that constantly swirled in the air, trapped between the buildings tickled his senses. The further he got, the more he noticed how new buildings seemed to mix with old, abandoned structures.

This area of town was older. No longer the shiny new architecture, these buildings had character, spires, gables and columns marking their pre- and post-Depression Era construction. Many had seen their time come and go while others stood proud, face-lifted, having gone through some sort of renewal work.

It was a common malady of cities that over time, some areas would simply deteriorate. New city management oftentimes spurred re-growth and reclamation of those sections and this area seemed to be in full swing of such a trend. Construction workers moved about one building, city crews hammered away at old cement walks, framing in what would be a new surface, a new beginning.

College and commerce kept the city in constant flux and along with it, came the odd mixture of high-rise business buildings and affordable flats. Interspersed with the old was new construction or revival of older buildings, the latter waiting for their time to shine again.

It was noisy, busy, constantly moving and undulating. And a bit like finding a needle in a haystack but he had to find Dean, had to think. Had to get his bearings, but where to begin? It was all so confusing, so...

Sam suddenly stopped and sighed.

Eyes closed, he carded fingers through his hair and thought. Everything he’d learned about hunting, every lesson his dad had drilled into his head, and into Dean’s, was easily applied to random people, places and events. But this wasn’t easy; this was complicated. This was family.

Now, he needed to funnel out the emotion and all that went with it and focus on applying those principles to finding his brother. Focus on what he did know. He was armed with a vague street direction, the notion that Dean was after some _thing_ that looked like a some _one_ , and the awareness that Dean might have walked straight into a trap.

It was time to think like the predator that Dean had chased.

Mind devoid of all concern, all fear, he scanned the buildings again. This area of town was too busy, too populated, too high-profile. Sam moved again, this time with more purpose.

An alley. It was the only place in a city to hide illicit deeds or wrongdoings.

In passing, he quickly assessed the first alley. It was narrow, maybe five feet wide, sparse. Flanked by high-rent buildings, if the outside was anything to go by, with lots of people moving in and out, even at the side doors leading to the alley. Too visible. He discarded it almost immediately.

His long steps quickly ate up the next block and he came to another alley. This one, while it looked more promising, was still too busy. The area still too high-brow. Sparing it barely a glance, he moved faster. Every city had its cheap side, its low-rent district. Like Cabrini Green in Chicago with rat-infested tenements, projects and poverty hand-in-hand.

Sam hitched up his jacket, the chill of the deepening shadows lowering the temperature more. The smells, those rich sweet scents from earlier, he realized were now growing more sickly sweet, then pungent, almost nauseating as he progressed, easily discarding several other alleys along the way.

A sound emerged from the rest of the cacophony mainly because it had a sense of order in the middle of the remaining chaos. Music, drifting softly on the breeze. So wrapped up in the hunt, Sam hadn’t noticed the street performer until he was nearly on top of him.

Dark sunglasses blacked out his eyes and deft fingers moved lithely over the pads of his saxophone. The tune he played held a hauntingly sad quality to it, one that left Sam oddly bereft. Then, an idea came and he halted in front of the musician and waited for him to finish. It seemed to take forever but Sam just attributed that to his own impatience.

“Excuse me.” Sam tried to sound apologetic, but knew he’d failed. He was in too much of a hurry.

The tune died a horrid death, the last note falling to the ground with an almost painful screech. “Jesus.” The musician rested the bell of the instrument against his stomach. “What the hell?”

Sam barely glanced at the guy, still looking around. “Have you seen a man pass by here? Short, light-colored hair, about yea tall,” he gestured. “Late twenties, wearing a brown leather jacket. He might’ve been in a hurry, maybe," Sam glanced at his watch, “four hours ago?”

_God, four hours. Shit._

The guy sighed. “Boy, I don’t wear these glasses 'cause’ the sun hurts my eyes.” He lifted the frames and Sam swallowed. Where the cornea should be was white–nothing but white–then he resettled them. “Now, if you’re done making fun of the blind, you can tell whatever frat that sent you here to make fun of old blind Joe—”

“Oh… shit, I’m sorry,” Sam interjected. Producing a twenty, he dropped it into the instrument case. “I’m really, really sorry. I’m not from the college; I’m just new in town. I’m looking for my brother. Sorry to have bothered you.” With that he turned to leave.

“Hang on there, kid,” the musician called out. Sam was no more than three steps away when he stopped and turned. “Get over here.” When Sam was close, Joe twisted his mouth into a wry grin. “Were that a Jackson you dropped in my case?”

Puzzled at how the street musician could possibly have known….

“Boy, I may be blind, but I can hear, and money sings mighty loud in ol’ Joe’s ears.”

Sam looked down at the twenty and nodded, then cursed himself. “Yeah. It was a twenty.”

The musician knelt down, his hand searching then finding the slightly crumpled bill. “Well, then,” he shoved it in his pocket. “I think you just bought yourself some information.”

“That’s not what I… Wait, but you said…”

Joe scoffed. “Man's got two ears and only one mouth, reckon it means we should listen twice as much as we talk. Now, you gonna shut up and do that, stand there babbling all day?”

“Um… yeah, please, whatever you can tell me. Please.” Sam couldn’t help the desperation that leached into this voice. He glanced at his watch. _Six hours…_

“Look across the street and tell me what you see.”

Sam turned. Amidst the passersby, a man stood on the walk, behind a table, shuffling cards. Three older teens watched him, wild cheering rose occasionally, punctuated by animated gesticulations and the occasional clapping. A stack of bills lay at the center of the table, a rock keeping them in place.

“A man and it looks like he’s got a card game going, taking bets. Probably a shuffle game?”

“Yup,” Joe grinned. “That’d be Leon. If trouble’s what your brother run into and it happened in this area, he’d have either seen or heard 'bout it."

Sam watched Leon move the cards then take up his winnings. "Leon, huh?" he murmured to himself. The three gamblers gesticulated wildly.

"Man’s got to be the busiest body in these parts," Joe continued, "and that ain’t a healthy habit to get into on the streets. Likely to get him kilt’ one these days.” He licked the reed on the sax and added, “You go talk to him, tell him Joe sent ya. He owes me so don’t give him a damn dime.”

It didn’t seem like much but given how little Sam had now, something that didn’t seem like much still offered the possibility of being something. Sam shook his head at the twisted thoughts. No, he was not thinking like Dean, he’d just attribute it to his pounding headache.

This time he watched before crossing, but in a matter of minutes Sam dodged a few cars and stood behind the three boys who were now arguing with Leon.

“Fuckin’ crook,” one of them raged. “You cheated. I want my money back, pendejo!” In a combination of Spanish and English, epithets flew as the other two chorused their own indignation, also wanting their money.

“Fellas," Leon soothed, seemingly unfazed. "I don’t cheat, you just suck.”

Sam sighed in frustration. He didn’t have time for this; Dean was out there, likely hurt, or worse. Something had gone wrong and time was of the essence. He could feel it.

The sound of a click made Sam snap to attention. One of the teens had produced a switchblade and it hovered dangerously in front of Leon’s chin. Sam sprung quickly. The knife was kicked out of the boy’s hand and before the kid could retaliate, Sam stood between the youths and Leon, fake badge extended in front of him.

“That’s enough, guys.” Sam hoped his voice held enough authority to back his bluff. “Get lost or I’ll be forced to take you in.”

Two of the three hoods were off at a run before Sam even finished. The third followed but couldn’t resist a final nod at Leon, clearly indicating this wasn’t over for him, then turned and booked after his friends.

Sam lowered the badge then blinked when he realized for the first time that a small crowd had gathered. “It’s alright, folks.” He waved the badge around and demanded, “Everyone move along, back to your business.”

When the crowd had dissipated, Sam turned. Leon was gone.

It didn’t take him long to spot the con, slipping along with the crowd. He cast a backward glance at Sam before attempting to fade off into the masses heading in the opposite direction. With a muttered curse, Sam vaulted and managed to overtake the con in three long strides.

With a firm hold on Leon’s collar, he dragged the man forcibly into a narrow alley and slammed him against a wall. Sam got in the shorter man’s face. “You’re not going anywhere ‘til I say so. Now, Joe tells me you have a nose for trouble ‘round here. That right?”

Leon didn’t answer, for a long moment just studied Sam. A grin suddenly broke across his mouth. “Shit,” he exclaimed and his shove sent Sam stumbling back a bit. Scoffing, he smoothed out his ruffled shirt. “You ain’t no cop. ‘Sides, I know all the cops ‘round here, even the plainclothes ones. You look more like a Boy Scout.”

Frustration piqued and Sam quickly drew his gun. “Maybe,” it was inches from Leon’s face, “but how many Boy Scouts do you know carry guns?” That got Leon’s attention.

“Easy, man.” Leon’s eyes crossed as he stared down the barrel of the gun now resting on the bridge of his nose. “Ya had me at ‘Joe sent cha’ That’s enough for me. So, point that the other way and tell me what’ch wanna know?”

While he lowered the gun, Sam remained tense. “I wanna know if you saw anything…strange earlier today. A guy with short cropped hair, almost my height, wearing a brown leather jacket.” Their last words before losing contact prompted Sam further. “He might’ve been running, maybe following someone? With a kid?”

“Earlier you say? Like, late morning time?” Sam nodded and Leon rubbed at his chin, thinking. Then he grimaced. “Eh, I ain’t so good with faces ‘n all, but I seen a guy that, now that I think about it, he did have on a kinda long leather jacket. But that ain't what I noticed..."

"What _did_ you notice?" Sam growled impatiently.

"I noticed the piece he carrying." Leon grinned. "Nice one too, shiny chrome, ivory handle. A real fancy piece of work.”

Dean had had his gun out? The fact that Dean had had it out in public in broad daylight... that meant things had gone south and badly. Shit.

Sam swallowed. “Yeah," he nodded. "That's my brother. That's Dean. Did you see which way he went?”

“Sure, sure,” Leon offered, but he darted several glances nervously around, then up over Sam’s shoulder before settling. Seemingly at ease that they weren’t being watched, he made a sudden, jerky movement toward the alley’s entrance.

Fearing Leon was about to bolt, Sam easily sidestepped, sufficiently blocking the shorter man's path. “Leon….” he said, grabbing up a handful of the con's shirt, voice low and full of warning.

“Woah," Leon shot his hands out, palms facing Sam in mock surrender, "easy does it. I ain't runnin'.” Pressing his point, Sam maintained his grasp on the con man's shirt. “Listen, I owe ya. You saved my bacon back there, right? I’m just going to show you which way he headed. Capice?”

Sam’s jaw twitched a bit, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. After a beat he slowly released the con’s shirt. “No more sudden moves," he advised before letting Leon move.

Leon nodded. “You got it. Hey,” the con tried a fake smile, “any friend of Joe’s, is a friend of mine.”

The man oozed sincerity about as well as a used car salesman swearing on a stack of Bibles, but Sam needed whatever this guy knew so he reluctantly stepped aside to let him pass.

Out on the street, Leon pointed. “Saw him run up that way, then he ducked into that alley over there.”

Sam nodded but he couldn’t help but ask, “And you’re sure it was the guy I described? Short hair, leather jacket?”

“Shit, he nearly run right into a game I had goin’. Besides,” he gave Sam a look up and down, “kinda hard to miss, you two. Big sons a bitches, you and your brother.”

“Thanks,” Sam answered, no longer paying attention to anything the con-man was saying. He started to move on when Leon grabbed him by the upper arm. Turning, Sam fixed the shorter man with a hard look.

“You know, if you and your brother are ever interested, I know where you two could make some good money bare-knuckle fighting. Kinda, underground, if you know what I mean.”

Sam gave the con a look that made him shrink. He couldn't help thinking how much Dean would probably love something like that. _Fight Club_ style. If Sam knew his brother, he'd probably even throw out a couple of Brad Pitt lines too.

With Leon backing away, Sam turned again to look in the direction the con-man had pointed. It was maybe fifty yards off, but Sam felt hope surge in his chest, though it did little to quell his increasing fear.

Not bothering to look back or answer the conniving man’s previous offer, Sam shoved his gun in the waistband of his pants, hidden below his jacket and took off, with more direction than he’d had in hours.

“Hey!” Leon’s voice suddenly broke the cool air. “Wait up a sec.”

Sam stuttered to a halt and turned back to look at the con. “What now?”

“God, I almost forgot.” After a jittery glace around, Leon shuffled up to Sam. “You mentioned a kid, yeah?” At Sam’s nod, he continued, “Well, I seen a guy shovin’ some kid along the street. They ducked down that same alley not long before your brother and his shiny piece run up."

Sam looked back at the street, his eyes going immediately to the alley. "You sure?" he asked distractedly.

"Hey, would I lie to you?" Leon asked, hands out to his side.

Sam gave him a withering look. "You'd better not," he warned.

Leon blanched. "A-a-anyway's, as I was sayin," he shifted, pulled a piece of gum from his pocket and shoved it in his mouth. "The kid had blood on one side of his head. Guess he seemed kinda scared.” He shrugged.

"You guess?" Dumbfounded, Sam stalked back toward Leon, looming over him. “And you didn’t think to call the police?”

“Shit, mister,” Leon recoiled. “Folks got more important things t’ do than to worry 'bout some man gettin' on t' his kids. This ain’t exactly Mayberry, ya know.”

Sam shook his head in disbelief. Without answering he turned and headed off in the direction Leon had indicated.

Leon’s information synched up with the conversation he’d had with Dean just before he’d gone silent. And it wasn’t good. In fact, this was so much worse than he’d thought. Not only was Dean missing, but he’d likely been set up by a kidnapper, using the one bait that would surely make the elder Winchester act before thinking: a kid.

Legs churned, and Sam’s long stride carried him quickly to the alley Leon had indicated. During his race up the street, he quickly promised himself that if Leon had been lying, retribution Winchester-style would be something the flim-flam man would not soon forget.

God; he _was_ channeling Dean.

Sam turned down the corridor, ran forward three steps then slowed. “Dean!” He tried, but there was no answer.

For the most part, this alley wasn’t much different than all the others, but for the volume of refuse scattered about; empty boxes, papers and bottles were so thick the pavement was nearly completely covered.

The floor was peppered with broken glass, old evidence left over from a number of broken windows in the tall, dilapidated building. The graffiti decorating the walls advertised that ‘Jesus is Savior’ and that ‘f-deedee was here’ at some point. Whoever that was.

Papers shifted to his left and Sam jumped, weapon out and ready. On cautious feet he moved toward the sound, a pile of boxes stacked precariously against the wall, plenty of room for someone to hide in.

He swept out with one leg and sent the boxes toppling to the gorund. Rats. They scurried left and right, ducking for cover.

“Dammit.”

Spinning Sam moved forward once more. A large brick wall marked the end of the alley and he drew to a halt dead center. Panting loudly, he swallowed at the enormity of what faced him. Dean could be anywhere in all this crap, unconscious, bleeding, injured.

“C’mon Dean,” he said loudly. “Gimme some sign here!”

In a fit of fear, he bent and wildly started tossing the trash and empty boxes into the air, searching for the surface beneath, for his brother, for any hint of a clue. An anguished cry tore at his heart as his frantic thoughts vacillated between fear of what he’d find and the fear of finding nothing.

The dumpster was next. He vaulted the side and peered at the contents of the container. Nothing.

Frustrated, he dropped to the ground and leaned back, the dumpster’s metal surface cool against his skull. Gun tucked under one arm, he rubbed his palms into his eyes.

Then froze. “Shit.”

Standing straight, he dug for his cell and hit redial. The familiar sounds of 'Smoke on the Water’ echoed off the alley walls.

Sam followed the music and once again he was digging. The music reverberated, echoing off the concrete walls, sending him in different directions, frantic. “DEAN!”

Then, he found it. Dean’s phone. But when he saw the smudge of fresh blood next to it, his heart really stopped.

 

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)


	5. Chapter 5

**Jeremy** had been labeled a trouble-maker most of his short life. However, before today, his definition of trouble had been simple, child-like. Bordering on innocent.

Trouble wasn’t new to Jeremy. He'd been knee-deep in shit plenty of times. Brought most of it on himself - he realized that, though he'd never admitted it. Realized too he wasn't nearly so proud of it as he let on...

Jeremy had a track record of offenses and the list was long and varied.

Got caught shoplifting by the cops twice; nabbed for vandalizing a building once. Broke some windows on an abandoned building, where he'd only been caught after being ID'd by a neighboring business owner. Set fire to some garbage in a dumpster. Then the local Barney Fife at school had busted him once for putting a smoke bomb in the school bathroom. Another time for slashing a teacher's tires. There was more, but he'd managed to escape getting caught those times.

It was harmless shit, really. But enough for Jeremy to know most of the cops by name, and they his.

God, what Jeremy wouldn’t give for a cop now. Even that dick-cop who'd popped him upside the head once.

Then there was his most recent run-in with trouble; ditching school. It had seemed like a good idea at the time last week, but his badly forged note and a suspicious office worker had earned him a fact-check call to his Mom.

Next? A slow ride to Hell.

The little stunt had earned him a two-week sentence at home, grounded. The rules: straight home after school, no friends over. No going out, not even on weekends, just clean the apartment every day, read a book, no computer, no video games. Nothing.

“You’re just lucky your dad’s not around!” Mom had yelled at him as he stormed off to his room and slammed the door. That had been day one of his sentence.

Lucky? Hell, Jeremy _wished_ his father were around. Wished it every day. It's not like Ken was even his real dad, but he'd been real enough for Jeremy.

Then, without a word, he just left them. Just like that. No explanation or anything and worst thing was, Jeremy had no clue why. Well, that wasn't exactly true, he had some idea. Mom. Even on her best days, she just seemed a little... off.

Parents in general, Jeremy knew, were always off, if his friends' constant complaints were anything to go by. Then again, if Jeremy was honest with himself, he would have seen the difference; even on her best days, his mother's version of 'off' was more extreme. Cheryl Dubois's self-destruct button always hit when things seemed just a bit too close to perfect, and that was never more evident to Jeremy than when Ken Dubois came into their lives.

It was eight years ago, almost to the date, when Ken Dubois met his mother and only a few months later asked her to marry him. Even before they had married, Ken had been a kind, decent man, and one who had treated them both with love and respect. Quickly he'd become the friend Jeremy had needed; a kind heart and listening ear, yet he was no pushover either. He could read Jeremy's bullshit a mile away, but knew when to be heavy-handed and when to give it a soft touch.

Jeremy couldn't be sure just when things had changed, but they had. It seemed only shortly after the weekend when things grew tense between his parents. There were heated conversations. Awkward silences and glances that refused to meet. They drifted apart, or rather, Mom had pushed him away.

A truck driver by trade, Ken was often gone for days at a time, but when he came back, he was always attentive, loving and intent on making up for lost time. He even took them to Chicago once, to see a Cubs game. That had been sweet. That had been Jeremy's eighth birthday.

Then, with things deteriorating to the point he could no longer find a solution, Ken took a truck driving job that he explained would mean longer hours on the road. The longer route to Mexico meant more money for all of them and he'd send them half of each check.

Taking it in her normal stride, Mom had yelled at him to keep his money and just get out. Stay out. And he did, though Jeremy had seen the envelopes come in the mail, each one in Ken's handwriting. Jeremy had even managed to hold one up to the light, once. There was no letter, just a check.

Each time, Mom had marked them 'Return To Sender'. Ken had finally given up.

The day he'd realized Ken was never coming back, Jeremy had cried himself to sleep. It was in those waning hours that the longing and pain squeezed his heart like a vise. With every fiber of his being, he wished his father were there. Wished it fervently every night, until he was exhausted, emotions laid bare, and he’d finally fallen sleep.

Even now, years later, Jeremy still found himself unable to hold back the tears of pain and loneliness.

Then, just like every day, when the sun came up and Mom left for work, Jeremy put on his mask of indifference and rebellion and went looking for trouble. Or, what he thought of as trouble.

Busy keeping their heads above water, Mom worked two jobs just to make ends meet. She slung fast food at one joint, then pushed papers for some uptight accountant in an office, part-time. The guy was a prick and he leered at his mother. Mom was too afraid of losing her job to say anything. It made Jeremy sick.

"I'll get a paper-route, something. You don't need to work for that asshole," Jeremy had pleaded.

"Watch your mouth!" she'd reprimanded. "No, you'll stay in school. You'll get an education. That's the only way you'll rise above this, Jeremy."

Well, the hell with that. They'd been living like this for five years and now, Ken was gone, she was too busy, hell, the world was too busy to deal with him. So, Jeremy found ways to _make_ them deal.

At the tender age of nine, Jeremy discovered that he wasn’t actually Superman and, therefore, indestructible. After one of many fights he’d gotten into, Jeremy had needed stitches, so Mom had dragged him to the free clinic, because their insurance sucked. That was when he'd met Bill and for the first time in a long time, an adult male, this total stranger, had taken an interest in him. Bill had treated him like a person, instead of a burden. Just like Ken had.

"You can call me Billy," he'd said with a smile, half hidden by his thick framed glasses. "That's what all my friends call me."

So Jeremy had, just like all his friends had. They'd called him Billy.

Billy was the nice janitor at the free clinic near his apartment. Billy, who’d given him that cool skateboard for his tenth birthday. Billy, who hadn’t ratted on him when he'd caught him smoking with his friends in the alley behind the clinic. Billy, who had even let him taste his beer once.

It never crossed Jeremy’s mind that Ken would never have done any of those things. And Ken would've been right not to. Now it was too late for hindsight.

Most of the boys on that block knew Billy, as it turned out. When his name came up in conversation it was always Cool Billy. Nice Billy. Nerdy Billy. Geeky Looking Billy. And now, Jeremy could add a new one, one that no one else would likely ever know: Serial Killer Bill.

The name 'Billy' was just too nice for the monster Jeremy had come to realize he was.

Before, when he was still Billy, it had become a daily thing to meet Cool Billy outside the clinic. Once he got off work, they'd go out, do _stuff_ together. Fun stuff. Stuff that Jeremy had no business doing. Stuff Ken never would've allowed.

But Ken wasn't there. Mom had seen to that.

Today had been different, though. Billy had called him. Billy never called him.

Things got stranger after that. Billy had asked Jeremy to meet him at a different place, the busy street with all the coffee shops and that nice smell of fresh baked goods that Jeremy always stayed clear of. Why bother? Didn't have the money to buy the cookies anyway.

When Bill had arrived the news had broken: Jeremy was busted. Mom had found out that he wasn’t at home. That he'd skipped school. Again. Jeremy's friends, also truant, had scattered. Worried for their own asses.

Jeremy had figured then that he knew what it meant to be in trouble. Still, he hadn't scratched the surface.

Bill had insisted he come with him. Face the music. Show some respect for his mom. Jeremy had balked at that, at first. Argued stubbornly that he had the right to do whatever the hell he wanted. No one, least of all her, cared about him anyway.

Then Bill had taken his arm. Pulled him in close. Whispered angrily.

“She showed up at the clinic," Billy had said, "worried sick, asking about you. Her boss wouldn't let her leave, said she should play babysitter in her own damn time,” he'd added. “I think she lost her job, Jeremy. Because of you.”

The words had been harsh, but Jeremy knew he had deserved them.

Today was her restaurant job. The one with Al, her boss. One of the few nice bosses she had. Jeremy had dropped his head to his chest. He hadn’t wanted Mom to lose her job over him, but she had. All because she’d had to hunt down her trouble-making, delinquent son. Again.

So with Billy close behind him, Jeremy had sunk deep into his self-deprecating thoughts and they’d headed to the clinic, where according to Bill, Mom waited. He’d stubbornly held back the tears.

In hindsight, if he hadn't been so lost in his morose mood, Jeremy might have been more aware of Bill’s odd behavior: nervous, anxious, constantly twitching and turning around from time to time, like someone was following them.

Finally, when he'd determined Jeremy wasn't going fast enough, Billy had poked him, insisted he pick up the pace. When Jeremy had cast him a questioning look, Bill’s response had only left him more anxious...

“Sooner we get there, less mad she’ll be,” Billy had said looking straight ahead, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Jeremy got the strangest sense that Billy wasn't even talking to him. Well, it was Billy talking, just not _to_ Jeremy. But he had no reason to think differently of Billy, so Jeremy had done as he’d asked and picked up the pace, as best his short legs could. Besides, he was worried about his mother.

Too late he realized, it looked more like they were _running from_ someone, rather than _walking to_ somewhere.

Nothing he did seemed good enough and Billy grew impatient and… angry. And when Jeremy finally complained, Billy grabbed up Jeremy’s shirt atop one shoulder, fisted the material and before he knew it, Jeremy was being dragged along in a tide of people.

“Stop it, Bill, you’re... you’re hurting me.” And it did hurt. Turned out, half the skin on his left shoulder was trapped in that material, pinched and twisted in Bill's grasp.

The grasp remained tight and bruising. Didn't slow him down either. Instead, he changed directions, swiftly. Jeremy found himself being dragged down some lower basement stairs, hidden in shadows, hidden from the crowd.

Next thing he knew, he was lifted and slammed against a wall, Bill's face menacingly inches from his. “You listen to me, you little prick. If you love your momma you’ll do exactly as I say, you hear?”

“B-Bill…what?” _Dammit._ Jeremy couldn’t stop the tears that fell down his face. Bill had always been so understanding, so gentle with him. The guy digging his fingers into him now, he didn’t know this guy. This guy scared the hell outta him.

“Shut your fucking mouth.” Bill shook him, then slammed his head harder against the brick. Jeremy saw stars. “Just know I will kill your Momma if you utter so much as a peep. Hear me?”

Bleary-eyed and in pain, Jeremy only nodded, too stunned to do more.

After a beat, when Billy was sure no one was paying attention, he'd dragged Jeremy back up the stairs and onto the sidewalk. Hesitating only a moment, Billy looked around, gave a satisfied grunt and then they were off again. Jeremy’s heart raced, his stomach flipped and rolled.

They’d gone about a block when Billy stopped and they turned as one. Billy tightened his grip on Jeremy's arm.

The crowd shifted around them and a guy suddenly materialized, unmoving, maybe fifty feet away, staring at Jeremy with wide, angry eyes. But the anger wasn’t at him, it was at Billy. And Jeremy felt his heart surge, just for a moment.

Someone had noticed. They _had_ been running away from someone. Him. But the man didn’t look scary at all, at least not to Jeremy.

Momma had always said that Jeremy shouldn't give his guardian angel so much grief. _"'Else one day, son, the poor thing just might give up on you."_

For now, it looked like his guardian angel was still on call.

Jeremy had opened his mouth, but the grip had tightened and words hadn’t surfaced. Instead he’d pleaded silently for the guy standing tall and fierce against the crowd, looking like fire might start spitting out of his eyes, pleaded with him not to give up on Jeremy now.

Then the crowds had converged again and the guy was gone, swallowed by the human tidal wave. It was so fast that Jeremy wondered if he had been just an illusion. Jeremy had felt his heart sink. Whoever this guy was, he prayed he wouldn’t give up, prayed he’d keep following. Not that he could be sure, but it sure seemed that he was chasing them.

Chasing Billy. _Please God-please God-please God._

Another direction change and Billy dragged him forcefully down an alley, kicking at the trash that littered their path. They moved deeper into the shadows, the cool autumn air sitting heavily where the sun couldn’t reach. Deeper and darker down the narrow corridor until Billy finally drew them to a halt near a massive pile of boxes.

Eyes wide in panic, Jeremy only looked around, head still woozy from being slammed into the bricks. He noticed for the first time that something sticky trailed down his neck.

Turned, wrestled and shoved, he was spun about, fingers bruising against his skin. A cloth was placed over his mouth and the smell of something sickly-sweet clouded his already panic-stricken mind. The world spun, then grayed…

Then nothing.

When he awoke, he quickly discovered where trouble had led him. Hell.

And, contrary to popular belief, Hell was not some fiery pit, but a frozen, inky black room.

Trembling as much from fear as from the cold, Jeremy huddled in on himself. Arms wrapped around his legs trying to maintain what little body heat he had, he cried. It was freezing and the only sound in the room was his teeth chattering loudly.

Now, for the first time in his life, Jeremy was in _real_ trouble.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**Dean** Winchester knew about pain, had experienced more than his fair share first-hand. Hazards of the job.

In all his years as a hunter, he’d been shot, stabbed, beaten, clawed, bitten and thrown against more hard surfaces than he could count. He'd been thrown against a couple of soft surfaces, too, that had still hurt like hell.

Over the years, as a result of all those experiences, he’d learned how to manage his pain, how to contain it, give it shape and form, make it disposable. Learned to put it somewhere deep and hidden in his mind, not let it surface until he said so. Not let it bend his will. Not let it break him. Not let it show.

So, he wasn’t overly concerned about dick-shit’s earlier threat: _I’m good at pain Dean, make no mistake._

 _Yeah? Well I'm better, fuckwad!_ Only, Dean had never gotten the chance to issue that rejoinder. The breath had barely filled his lungs to speak when the promised pain had swallowed him whole.

Now, he was covered in painful cuts. Save for the puncture on his thigh, the rest were shallow and bleeding and sizzling under his skin. They were in his chest, sides, arms and neck. Perv had wielded that knife like a pro. Like a man well practiced.

It hadn’t left him unconscious. No. Dean had held out. Held on. Grabbed hold. Though just with his fingertips.

Now, he was somewhere floating between awareness of his existence and denial of reality. He drifted in the twilight of consciousness. Caught in the too-heavy weight of his own eyelids, but hurting too much to do more.

Hurting. The barbed wire pushed and cut into his chest. Still, he couldn’t find it in him to shift. Wouldn't matter. They were imbedded and moving back wouldn’t change that.

Then, something shoved up against him, pushed him upright. It was almost gentle. The relieved weight of his body as it was lifted away from the wire made him gasp. Then sigh.

Sam.

 _Thank God. Sam. He made it. Thank God,_ Dean murmured, or maybe he'd just thought it, but either way, he felt it. Felt it to his bones. Felt relief and panic because if Sam was there, Dean had to get him out of there. Away from there.

While Sam held him upright, probably to cut the wires, Dean waited, eyes closed, conserving any strength he'd surely need to get them out of there. Waited patiently because time seemed to bend in his mind.

Instead of the wires snapping and releasing from his body. Instead of his hands being cut free and the plastic being tugged from his torn wrists, something pressed under his chin, lifted his head. Dean furrowed his brow. But nothing more. He wasn’t ready for more.

It was confusing. Dean’s jaw hurt and part of him couldn’t remember why; most of him didn’t want to remember why. The pressure against his chin grew more insistent. Sammy must’ve been having trouble with the bindings, with holding him up.

The handling became rougher. Pressure on his arms tighter. But his head was jockeyed, and tilted and when something settled around his neck to lay loose on his shoulders, the little voice of alarm screamed at him to open his eyes.

“C’mon Dean,” a familiar voice cajoled. “You don’t wanna sleep through this.”

Perv. That was Perv’s voice.

_Sam! Sam run!_

The thing around his neck tightened. It itched. _The fuck…?_

“Open your eyes, Dean.” Perv tapped him on the face. Hard. “Trust me, you’ll be very sorry if you relax now.”

Instead of obeying, Dean’s head drooped again, chin landing firmly on his chest. The thing around his neck pulled against his Adam’s apple.

Lacking the strength to do more than listen, unable to comprehend, Dean sagged.

“Oh, well,” Perv continued smoothly. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The support was gone and Dean’s body fell forward. It was a short drop and the thing around his neck tightened. It constricted around his throat. Dug into the tender flesh. Choked off his air.

Panicked, his eyes flew open even if he couldn’t really focus on anything. Dean gasped. His head shot up.

Instinct left him eager, anxious to pull at whatever was cutting off his breath. Dean jerked, hands twisting, pulling. It was useless. The effort sent the bindings cutting deeper into his wrists, sending more blood flowing freely down his arms.

Dean wheezed, in a desperate attempt to draw a breath. The rope around his neck was too tight. He couldn't... get enough. Oh, God… he was dying and he couldn’t even take his last breath…

The pressure suddenly lessened. Dean felt air surge back through his lungs.

Dizzy, he let himself drop. His eyes slid closed.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Perv warned. “If you don’t want a repeat, I strongly suggest you stay exactly where you are.”

Dean obeyed this time. Held still in that place between the wires in his chest and those at his back, where the rope didn’t strangle, didn't cut off his air; the loop around his neck was loose now, but not near as lax as he wanted it.

Caught between a rock and a hard place, Dean felt like a country dog in the city: stand still and he'd get screwed. Run, and he'd get bit in the ass. An old cowboy in Odessa had given him that line, right about the time his eyes had turned black and he'd left Dean in that desert gulch with three angry rattlesnakes.

“You… son–,” Dean coughed, choked on the pain in his lungs and neck. Head bent, body gasping.

“Yes, yes, I’m a son of a bitch," he agreed casually. "Believe me, I know my lineage. Better than you realize.”

"Well," Dean coughed and lifted his eyes, staring as venomously as he could at his captor. “Never let it be said,” he ground out, voice rasping, “I didn’t overstate the obvious.”

The smug look on Perv’s face told him the dig meant nothing. What meant everything was the rope he held, swinging it casually back and forth. Dean’s eyes followed where it trailed upward and looped over a beam in the rafters of the barn. That was as far as he could see it go, even if he could guess the rest. He could certainly feel exactly where it ended, circled around his neck.

“Well, what should be obvious is that you’ve yet to answer my question.”

Dean nearly choked on the ball of relief that welled in his throat. He was sure he’d let Sam’s name out, earlier on when he’d been caught in that freaking semi-dozing, sort-of-hallucination with his brother. He hadn’t though. Thank God he hadn’t.

“So what...," Dean coughed painfully, "you’re just going to hang me? Gotta say, pretty boring way to kill someone.”

“Ah, see that's the beauty of it, Dean.” Perv swung the end of the rope, it twirled and whistled. “All I’ve done is put this rope around your neck. The rest is up to you. You move too far forward you hang yourself. You move too far back, you impale yourself.” He pulled the end of the rope in his hand. “I get to keep you on the edge the entire time.”

“Control freak,” Dean muttered.

“Exactly.” Perv knelt next to his captive and pulled the knife out again. He moved it playfully in front of Dean’s eyes.

This close, Dean eyed it curiously. “That real silver?” he asked, couldn’t help himself.

“It is,” Perv said proudly. “Nought but the best for you, Dean. Also, it’s easier to clean and it’s sharp. Very, very sharp, but then again… you know that.” He moved the edge down and ghosted it across one of the bleeding cuts in Dean’s chest.

Dean would kill for a camera right now. Not that he wanted to save this moment for later, but he wanted, he _needed_ to see this guy’s eyes under a camera lens. It made no sense. His crimes had shapeshifter M.O. all over them, with the missing skin and the bodies in the sewer. And yet… here he was, playing carelessly with the one metal that could kill him dead. It made absolutely no sense.

The suspicion that he might have gotten this one terribly wrong was beginning to take root in Dean’s brain. It spelled nothing but 'screwed to hell' to him.

“Yeah,” Dean swallowed. “I got that part. Loud and clear.”

“See, Dean, I am in control, however, any time you want, I will stop. All you need to do is answer my questions.” The blade stilled over his ribs. It pressed in slowly. “Tell me if someone will come looking for you. Tell me your real name.”

“I'm Moby Dick and you're Captain Ahab...," Dean growled. "Guess which of us dies first?”

Perv didn't react, he just sliced. Again. And again.

Every touch of the blade scorched as it dipped and sliced time and again, taking with it a little bit more of Dean's senses. Whittling away at the ground beneath him; his very strength and resolve. Short of Dean's own grunts and groans, however, he didn't let on and all sound was muffled. Only the hum of blade dancing across flesh and Perv's harsh, lascivious breathing filled the room.

Dean tasted blood in his mouth but he couldn't focus his eyes. He could smell copper and acrid sweat in the air, but could no longer tell which part of his skin was being cut. It was like an elaborate conspiracy, where all of his senses plotted against his desire to slip away and stop feeling miserable.

Blood and torment flowed freely and Dean felt his pain threshold crumbling.

The drugs. They'd exacerbated the pain, he was sure of it. There was no way this was normal.

Dean was made of stronger stuff than this and lacking concentration he couldn't seem to push this down and deep enough to escape it mentally. Though thinking about what was wrong seemed to occupy his need for release. For now.

Every incision and puncture, Dean knew, was strategic; never deep enough to hit arteries or bleed too much. Like being flayed alive; it hurt just enough to make him think he was dying. The drugs just added definition.

Given the carefully delivered method and measure, whatever this thing’s end game was, he wanted Dean’s pain to last. _You'll shout yourself raw before I'm finished with you._

So far he hadn’t done much more than groan and grunt, but this thing was good, Dean admitted. So good, that for once in his life, Dean wondered how much more he could take.

"You are stubborn, I'll grant you that," Perv said near the cart. He picked up a filthy blood-covered rag, the same one he'd used a dozen times already, and began cleaning off the knife’s blade. "Though, that trait doesn't gain you much, especially not here."

“Really?” Dean panted, staring bleary-eyed at his captor. “I was always told… that was one of my b-best qualities.”

It was harder than before to keep his eyes open. He was there, but at the same time he wasn't. _Keep thinking, Dean, keep him talking…_

"So what’s with the outfit, huh?" Dean slurred. It looked familiar. Like something a janitor wore, but he couldn't place it. "That the best you could find? Must've been slim pickins' when you hit town. They’d run out of clown outfits? 'Cause dude, the geeky, nerd-guy thing? Lame, man; I gotta be honest with you, you look like a salesman for Microsoft. It's scary, really."

Perv ignored him. Placing the blade on the cart he methodically pulled on a pair of large, black, thick rubber gloves. It was slow and theatrical and Dean was sure the show was for his benefit.

“Have you ever seen a cow branded, Dean? Ever smelt its hide burn?”

Dean stared a second, struggling for clarity as he worked to process the question. "Can’t say I have," he finally responded.

“My grandfather told me that the cows didn’t feel a thing, but you know, when the hot metal rod touches their flanks and they scream? I guess you could say I didn’t much buy that.”

Grandfather? Since when did shapeshifters, or any other monster for that matter, have... relatives?

Perv walked around the cart and came to stand before a thick tarp in one corner of the room. It was hung from a section with a low ceiling, like a ragged, dirt-stained drape. He pulled hard at the cloth and the thing fell heavily to the ground. Dust, dirt and hay kicked up around it, settling slowly in a slow dissipating cloud.

Dean hadn't noticed it before. Then again, it wasn't like he hadn't had other things on his mind. And the drugs didn’t exactly help either, in keeping him focused and sharp.

In full view now was a thick, half wall of stone on two sides, tucked into the corner and almost reaching the low ceiling. The ceiling wasn't a ceiling at all, Dean realized, it was more like a vent, also made of some kind of stone or mortar.

No wonder the other man seemed unaffected by the cold in the room, even with the added clothes that Dean was sorely lacking. Smoke wafted upward where coals obviously sat, waiting to be brought to life. Perv did just that, lifting a lever and pumping it, coaxing lazy flames and more smoke to quickly shoot up, erupting like a volcano. This wasn't a volcano. It was a forge. Like the kind they used to heat metal and make horseshoes.

The flames flared up and Dean squinted into the bright light, the surge of intense white leaving spots in his eyes. And, he noticed, no light flared in Perv’s, just normal reflections. Normal, human reflections. Fuck!

Somehow, the fact was that this thing was not a 'thing' at all, and that just made it all so much worse. Much scarier.

Well. Hell.

Perv grabbed a flat-shaped shovel and looked into the flames. "He even made me brand one of the animals, a small calf." Sweat trickled down his brow and Perv dug into the cavern of heat and started loading something hot into a metal bucket that sat on a wheelbarrow.

Dean cut his eyes over at Bessie. She looked on disinterested with the entire ordeal. "Sucks being you, huh?"

The barrow squelched and grated against the load and rust covering its wheel as it was pushed closer to the cart, closer to Dean. Smoke rose from the contents of the metal tub where several metal rods protruded.

When he was close enough, when Dean could feel the heat radiating form the rods in the bucket, many of which still glowed hot, Perv carefully set the barrow to rest on the back stands and released the handles.

"I didn’t want to," Perv continued. "Oh, how I begged him not to make me do it." He adjusted his gloves. "I cried and pleaded, but he didn’t care much for what I wanted. No... he just placed that red-hot iron in my gloved, ten-year-old hand and said that if I didn’t do it, he’d slit that animal's throat."

Dean swallowed. "What a bastard," he sympathized.

Perv stared off into the distance, like he was seeing an old memory. "We were just kids, you know, that calf and me. I knew I couldn’t carry the weight of its death with me, so I pushed forward and pressed that iron to its skin. The calf howled like there was no tomorrow, big brown eyes looking at me like I had betrayed it.”

With one gloved hand, Perv pulled one of the metal rods from the metal bucket and approached. Even through his clouded vision, Dean could see the red glow of hot metal. Fuck.

This had gone from out of hand to seriously fucked up far too quickly.

Perv squatted next to Dean. “You know?" he said as he studied the hot metal a moment. "I could actually ‘feel’ that calf’s pain, the trembling spasms in its flesh, as that heated rod sunk deeper and deeper into its skin, agony traveling up the metal and straight into my hand… The stench of burning flesh has stuck with me to this day.”

Bad as all this sounded, there was absolutely no remorse in Perv's voice. None.

“So, what?” Dean’s voice croaked. _Dammit._ He swallowed, tried again, hoping for a nice, mocking tone. “You’re taking kids 'cause your granddaddy made you brand a cow? Wow, Dude, your life was pretty fucked up. You should give Oprah a call.” Dean was proud of himself, even managed a smirk for good measure.

'Pride goeth before a fall,' or some such nonsense Dean had heard somewhere and he got the distinct impression, judging by the way Perv's head canted and the way his eyes went flat and angry, that he'd pushed a bit too far. Pride was a pretty useless commodity when you were dead.

Dean stilled. On reflex, his hands balled into fists. His body tensed. He forgot to breathe.

Just like the knife from before, the rod dropped. When the metal made contact with the skin of his shoulder, Dean couldn't think about much else.

Shock delayed the pain. He could hear what sounded like the crackle of fire and smelled something burning. It took a bit for his brain to admit that the smell was his own flesh cooking.

Head back, he scampered mentally away from the pain. Divided his mind... looked for someplace else.

An old war vet had told him once, over one too many shots of Johnnie Walker, that he'd seen napalm in action. Scary shit; once ignited, skin melted like butter. That may well be, Dean decided as the heated metal dug ruthlessly into his flesh, but this wasn't napalm.

This felt like ice, so intense and extreme that he couldn’t even classify it as hot or cold.

Then, when the rod moved from his shoulder to his side with the sickening feeling of peeling skin, all rational thought left Dean's mind.

There was nothing but pain in its all-consuming glory... searing this time. Burning with a heat that clouded Dean’s mind. Fogged it in a coat of agony. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move.

It went on far too long before the cooled rod was removed and dropped to the ground. Dean's stomach rolled, whether from the pain or the smell of his own charred flesh, he wasn't sure. Didn't matter, he was no longer able to discern one pain from another. The burns. The cuts. The barbs. Nothing mattered. Just the need to make it all stop.

Perv strode purposefully back to the metal bucket and pulled another rod from the coals. Fresh from the flames, it glowed red. His mind still too full of pain, Dean barely noticed he’d returned and once again squatted next to him.

A hand twisted in his hair and lifted his head cruelly up. "Yeah," Perv cooed, his face close. "It felt just like that, I'm thinking."

Dean's eyes drifted shut. Oh, to be unconscious. Perfect.

"Oh, no. Not allowed." A hand clamped down on his skull and shook. The motion rattled Dean's already scrambled mind.

All the insistent shaking did no good; Dean's eyes closed. Now, if he could just get his mind to join the rest of him. Close up and hide.

Close. He was so close to the oblivion he wanted. Just one more second of peace and quiet...

He never heard Perv rustle around him. Didn't hear him return until his head was pulled viciously up once again. His whole body followed the motion, propelled back.

Leaning back was bad. Back was sharp and barbed.

Shit.

Dean’s body tensed, back arching as far as it could go. He tried opening his eyes in a desperate need to understand what was happening. An irrational demand to know why his small bubble of rest was being so cruelly disrupted.

"That’s it... open those pretty green eyes of yours, Dean," Perv oozed. "You'll wanna see this one comin'."

And, God help him, that's just what he did. Wasn't much, just slits, the barest peek. It was enough to see the smiling sneer on the face of the man hovering over him and the string of tape, dangling from his fingers.

Then he struck.

Grabbing his head, Perv quickly thumbed one of Dean's eyes, pulling it open. Wide and painful.

A piece of white medical tape floated into Dean's view. It was pinched between two of Perv's fingers and held still, gloatingly in front of Dean.

Perv grinned. "I could do this with drugs, naturally, but," his hold tightened when Dean found a little room to wiggle, "but I don't want you dying too soon." The strip descended before Dean could flinch. It was pressed securely over the rim of his eyelid and brow, then pulled upward, securing the other end to Dean's forehead.

The other eye was done fast, efficiently.

The reaction was immediate. Dean fought to blink, skin tugging and pulling against the adhesive. Uselessly. The eye watering against the dry air. The way Perv smoothed the end of the tape to Dean’s forehead was almost tender and increasingly creepy.

When his head was finally released, Dean's chin hit his chest, panting. Holy shit! His eyes! He couldn’t fucking close his eyes! The fucker had taped them wide open.

Now, Dean couldn't flinch — couldn't look away — the thought of passing out with his eyes open... wasn't gonna happen. He'd never felt more vulnerable in his life. More naked.

"You," Dean struggled to think, "son of a bitch." He looked up, hoped he could convey some sort of angry death glare.

Perv ignored the comment. “Again, Dean. I want your real first and last name.”

"When I get free—"

"When?" Perv mocked. "Pipe dream, Dean. Only way you're getting free is when you're dead, or I am."

"Well," Dean shot back, "call me an optimist." The inability to blink was making thought more difficult than before. Eye muscles tugged and pulled against the unyielding tape.

"Yes, too optimistic for someone with no reason to fight. So," he leaned in close, another stick of hot metal between them, close to Dean's eye. The waves of heat made Dean's eyes, already dry and painful, water. "Name."

Tears mixed with the sting of sweat that he couldn't blink away. They tumbled down his flushed face.

Anger was a powerful tool and Dean used it to push down the sense of helplessness. The feeling of being completely exposed and trapped. It cleared away the webs of confusion that clouded Dean's mind. Focused him. Revived his will to live.

“Sure. I got a name," Dean said, teeth grinding. "Santa-gonnafuckyouup-Claus!” he managed angrily.

The new rod was quickly pressed against his chest. Dean found his voice that time. Head back. Eyes bulging. He screamed.

The rod was removed. “Why have you been following me?” Perv asked again. "Tell me who you are?"

Dean gasped, struggling to find his voice back from the pain. “Gonna find... out who’s naughty and nice… And you’re definitely... not nice.”

The hot metal found his right shoulder this time and Dean gagged on the stench of his burning flesh. Eyes staring helplessly at the bubbling surface.

After what seemed like an eternity it was removed.

Perv was next to his head. “When you die," he whispered, "when I cut you up into little pieces and bury you along with all the others in my field, will anyone come looking for you?”

“Yeah,” Dean said hoarsely. Eyes burning, sweat trickled down his face. Hot. His whole body felt like it was burning. It conflicted with the uncontrollable shivers that wracked his every muscle. He swallowed or tried to around the sticky feeling in his parched throat. "Yeah, someone’ll be coming."

"That's better Dean." Perv leaned back. "Tell me who."

Pivoting his head, Dean met the man's eager gaze and leaned in close. Perv mirrored his movement until there was scarcely a hair's breadth between them.

"My elves, you sick fuck.” Anger kept Dean conscious, lent him a reserve of strength. “And my reindeer? They aren’t gonna like that you branded their boss, dick-shit. Rudolf's nose'll be so far up your ass your throat's gonna light up!”

Dean thought he'd screamed before. He was mistaken.

 

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

 

**Sam** stood at the traffic light, impatiently tapping his foot. The coffee shop was just across the street and it was all he could do to display a calmness that he didn’t feel. At all.

Traffic was heavy and the shadows cast by the surrounding buildings were lengthening, as the end-of-the-work-day crowd pushed in around him. Sam held fast to his spot at the front, ready to be the first to step from the curb when the light changed.

The onset of dusk made the inside lights of the Java Loft bright enough for him to see the occupants inside, and he clearly made out Angie and Sara sitting at a table, talking. Sam had a plan.

Really, he’d rather just run in, grab his stuff and go, but the unwanted attention he’d already drawn from two cops three blocks back made him realize that he’d best get his shit together.

After discovering Dean’s cell, and what he was sure was Dean’s blood decorating it, and after at least one person swore up and down that he'd seen a light-colored late-model car leave the alley in a hurry, Sam was more than certain Dean was in trouble. The task of finding him in a large city, however, overwhelmed his thoughts; the words needle and haystack, somehow, didn’t seem to do it justice.

Not that Sam would give up on his brother, but even with Dean’s research, which he’d yet to see, there was no guarantee it would be of any use. Everyone else he’d talked to around the area, naturally, knew nothing. Typical of city folk, no one wanted to get involved.

Standing at the entrance to the alley, after running up and down the sidewalk spending hours questioning as many people as he could, Sam was ready to turn and head back to the coffee shop. Dean’s research, now, was all he had to go on.

Then he saw it: the city traffic cams. All over the street.

They'd escaped his detection earlier. Planted atop a light pole that was actually a cell tower as well, it was lost amongst the oddly shaped spires at the top, and Sam had failed to realize that one of the items was actually a camera.

Armed with what he hoped would prove a greater resource, Sam glanced at his watch and cursed hotly. Nearly eight hours since Dean had stopped answering his cell. Sam spun and took off, abandoning the search of local occupants and headed back to the coffee shop.

The evening light that rapidly veiled the city just made Sam move faster. The knowledge of how crucial time was in missing persons cases and the victims’ survival, only served to send panic to his legs and he broke into a run.

Their type of playmates demanded stealth and in his haste to recover Dean's research, Sam had put from his mind, in favor of swiftness, one vital element when moving about the general populace. Something Dad had worked hard to impress up on them.

On a flat run he'd just managed to avoid smashing into a woman and her two kids. The crying children and screaming woman had set him straight, though it was the two cops sitting in their parked cruiser who'd seen the near mishap who'd been the wake up call he'd needed. They'd pulled him aside for a brief chat, though not brief enough for Sam, and Sam had heard the little voice in his head warning him that he was calling too much attention to himself.

Thinking fast, Sam had quickly offered a lame, “I left my bag with my laptop at the coffee shop. Didn’t realize it until I got nearly all the way home. I’m sorry, I was just in a hurry to get it before someone takes it,” excuse and crossed his fingers.

The lie had been simple enough, considering it had some element of truth woven into it. Coupled with the fact that he still looked the college type, the cops merely eyed him a few minutes, warned him to watch where he was going and sent him on his way.

Forcing himself to take calm breaths, he walked at a leisurely pace across the crosswalk, like all the other good little pedestrians. Rubbing his sweaty palms on his pants, he walked up the stoop and opened the door to the coffee shop.

“Well.” Sam pushed the door open, quickly fastening on a chagrined look. “I found ’im.”

In unison, both girls’ heads popped up and their mouths opened in mute surprise. They stood up as Sam approached.

Naturally, Angie was first to recover her voice. “And?”

Sam’s arms flapped out at his side helplessly, then he dropped them. “You wouldn’t believe me if I… well, it’s a little embarrassing to be honest.”

“He’s alright then?” Sara asked, her large blue eyes looking more relieved.

“Uh, yeah…,” Sam sighed. It sounded forced and false even to his own ears. Playing the part was the hardest thing he’d done in a long while; he wanted nothing more than to snatch up the laptop and run. “I was on the verge of calling the police when he called me.”

“Huh,” Angie arched her left brow and the piercing waggled almost comically. “Sara and I were about to do the same thing.”

“Good thing none of us did.” Sam felt more than a little vindicated for making up this story. Police were the last thing he and Dean needed right now.

While Sam gathered up the laptop and papers, Angie asked, “So... he shot out of here like a maniac leaving a very expensive laptop behind because...?"

“Oh, that.” Sam cleared his throat. “Typical Dean, I’m afraid.” He shuffled the computer and papers under one arm, straightened and deadpanned. “He saw a girl.”

“He saw a girl.” It was a statement, one Angie issued complete with crossed arms and dark disbelieving eyes.

Sam grinned patiently at her. “The laptop’s mine, not his and when my brother’s thinking with his downstairs brain, pretty much all else goes out the window. Like leaving my computer behind and forgetting to call his brother to let him know where he is.”

That seemed to turn the tide of suspicion a little bit, at least enough for Angie to huff in sympathy, “Tell me about it. I have three brothers. But if one of them did this to me, he’d be shy one set of balls.”

"God, Angie, really...," Sara reprimanded her friend, her face flushed with embarrassment. Turning back to Sam, “So he finally called you?”

“He did, well, when he remembered his precious car was sitting parked out in front of your shop, likely to be towed.” Sam relaxed when disbelieving Angie grinned. She and Dean apparently shared an affinity for classic cars. “When he caught up with her they went out for lunch, had a few drinks, then she invited him over to her place. Didn’t realize his cell was dead. He called from her house.”

“Yeah, well, sounds like a little payback’s in order.” Angie smiled mischievously.

“Definitely,” Sam nodded, answering her grin as best he could. “Well, since my sorry-ass brother dragged his recovering brother downtown and scared him half to death, I might as well blow off this energy by catching up on some research for our book. Is the campus library far?”

“Oh!" Sara chimed in excitedly. "Angie told me about your road trip to research American universities for a book. Exciting. Never met a real author before." The blonde was practically salivating.

“Down girl.” Angie elbowed her in the ribs. The blonde colored and dropped her eyes. “Library’s not far at all.” The dark-haired girl pointed out the window. “Just keep heading up the main street there, then go right at the first light. It’s the enormous old building on your right. Can’t miss it.”

“Got it," Sam nodded. "And thanks for giving Dean's panicking little brother a ride.” He was backing toward the door. His skin crawled with the very real danger he knew his brother was in, and how the longer he delayed, the colder his trail would become. “And Sara? Thanks for hanging onto this for me."

When his backside met with the solid glass on the door, his shoulders nearly sagged visibly with relief. The door opened and after a half-smile, Sam slid the rest of the way out of the shop and nearly vaulted over to the Impala. It was all he could do to slow himself down.

Sam didn’t have to look to know the girls were watching from the shop windows. Rounding the black Chevrolet, he kept at an easy lope, reminding himself he wasn’t out of the woods yet. Unwarranted attention wasn’t good.

Using their emergency key, Sam popped the lock on the driver's side door. Before getting in he looked up and smiled, offering another casual wave good-bye to the girls. Angie’s gaze, he noted, still seemed a mite suspicious, while Sara seemed… smitten? Putting them out of his mind, he got in and brought the engine rumbling to life.

It wasn’t until the Java Loft shrunk into a barely visible dot in his rear-view mirror that he allowed himself a breath. But even then, it was only by half; there was still much to do. Find Dean.

For that, he needed a good Internet connection and some privacy because he had a city traffic cam system to hack into, some research to sift through and a brother to find. The latter he hoped would prove a successful endeavor; successful in that he’d find him in one piece.

It wasn’t long before Sam spotted the library. It was just as Angie had said, big and well-marked. The thing had to be six stories, and that didn't include the likelihood of a basement. A basement. Someplace that Sam hoped to access right away. Someplace quiet and secluded where he hoped to discover something, anything that might help him discover what had happened to Dean and hopefully, where he was.

Sam knew, with an utter certainty, that he was running out of time. And, if Dean hadn't already, he was likely running short too.

 

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)


	6. Chapter 6

**Dean** sighed and dropped his head. It wagged listlessly from side to side. It was the strangest thing to have your eyes taped open. To not be allowed any escape from his visual hell. Yet he still found it possible to hide in his mind. Only the sounds of quiet movement in the room told him he was still on display.

Perv was around doing... something. Dean didn't care at this point, because he had a chance to breathe again. Just for a minute. That alone was a struggle. Breathing.

Head still bowed, he watched through hooded eyes as the sweat dripped from his body, watched as it mingled with his blood to pool on the dirt floor. This angle at least kept it out of his eyes. Saved him from some of the burning.

A muscle at the edge of his left eye kept twitching madly. His eyes wanted to close. Dean wanted to let them.

This position he'd been in for… God, he had no idea how long he'd been there. All he knew was his legs were cramped. Keeping them bent and supporting his weight on his knees. But he kept flexing his feet, his toes. Kept hope alive.

More than anything though, he wanted to pass out. His body needed it. He knew for a fact that his eyes being taped open had nothing to do with that. It had to be the drugs, the damn drugs that made his skin feel like a whole colony of fire ants were tap dancing beneath his flesh.

The forced sight was overtaxing his brain. The drugs were amplifying pain. Every mental barrier he could find to hide behind was crumbling. He could not let that happen.

No, he'd hang on. He wouldn't give up. Wouldn't give Perv the satisfaction. So he opened his hands, bent them back. It hurt like a motherfucker, but he kept at it.

When something bumped his hand, Dean stilled his movements. Kept his head down.

Something... metal and narrow. He couldn't look up. Couldn't while Perv was there.

There wasn't time to work out what it might be because a hand shoved into his hair. It twisted viciously for a hold. Dean growled at the pull and pain on his scalp.

Without preamble his head was lifted with cruel, dizzying speed. Eyes wide now, the world rushed by in a haze of pain as he was pushed back. Keeping his wits, he arched his spine, his head stopping only when it slammed into the post. The impact set off an array of white lights bursting in his sight.

"No!" A familiar voice demanded and the hand shook his head.

“Fuck,” Dean gritted, fighting against the shock of pain. No matter the command, he felt himself slipping under a sea of darkness.

The hand tightened its grip again and shook. "Not. Yet!"

Scalp screaming in torment as the grip twisted in his hair and jerked violently, quickly. Then stopped.

Dazed, Dean could do no more than flop helplessly with the nauseating motion. It sent roils of bile upward, filling his mouth; he fought to keep it down.

The shaking stopped but the world continued to tilt and blur. Dean gulped in air to keep his stomach intact. The hand in his hair maintained the cruel hold.

"You don't get to do that yet, _Dean_ ," Perv growled in front of him. Close. Always too close. "You don't get to check out until I say so."

The muscles trapped beneath the tape, constantly pulled and fluttered. Dean wanted to blink his vision back to focus. But he couldn't.

It took time but sight slowly oozed into place. Perv's face was inches from his own, the hand still tight in his hair.

"Dude." Dean struggled weakly to turn his head away. It was embarrassingly easy how the hand kept him still. Sonofabitch... "Any... any one ever t-tell you 'bout personal sp-space?" And of their own accord, his eyes rolled up.

"NO!" Perv yelled and pulled Dean's head forward. "You. Do not. Pass out. On me." Each sentence was punctuated by a painful jerk of his head, several times hard enough to slam it back against the pole.

"No choice... there..." Dean gritted out, teeth clenched, "...'f you don't stop doin' that, you dumbasss.... muth'r fuk'r."

"Tell me your _real_ name," he insisted, his voice far too cool, the calmness of his tone positively frightening. "Tell me why you've been following me these last few days."

"Fine... f-fine," Dean muttered. "Alright!" he said more forcefully. The hand was gone and Dean's head fell forward, enough to feel the rope around his neck grow taut and remind him to check his move. Dean stilled before it could strangle him.

Perv backed off, but not by much. Dean felt the air thicken with anticipation and distrust.

"Alright... ya got me," Dean panted into the silence. It was an effort, but he lifted his head enough to eye Perv. The monster's face swam and blurred in his woozy sight. "'M the Easter Bunny an' I'm hoppin' mad."

Dean watched defiantly as Perv got to his feet and returned to the cart again.

Wordlessly, he turned, shoulders rigid, and faced what Dean had come to know as the monster's assortment of toys. And distressing as it was that he searched for yet another toy with which to torment him, Dean saw it as opportunity. A chance to maybe look up, glimpse what it was his hand had hit before.

Between the agony in his head that left his vision hazy and uncooperative and the proximity of the pole to his back, it didn't work; there was just no good angle and movement hurt. Like a bitch, it hurt. So he resigned himself to exploring with his hands. Feel for more information.

Even that was difficult. Concentration waned and his stomach flopped as the room seemed to swim and dip so he shook his head and righted his vision.

"Oh... God," Dean groaned, feeling hot bile rise up his throat. _Note to self: head shaking, even a little, after one’s head is slammed repeatedly against a fucking pole? Not a good idea._

"I would strongly suggest you hold still." His captor's voice was instructional, dispassionate.

Dean moved his lips mockingly, mimicking Perv's 'suggestion' before snapping back, "I'd strongly suggest you go fuck yourself."

"Such language." Perv shook his head but didn't otherwise turn. "I bet you were one of those scrappy kids in school who'd take on anyone who pissed you off, no matter how outmatched you were."

It was in Dean's fingers now, whatever it was that had struck his hand. It felt small. It moved when he got his fingers around it. It was hard. His fingers, thick and nearly numb, traveled the length of it.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, keeping an eye on Perv to make sure he didn't turn, yet. "I was also the kid who won those fights."

Curiosity was eating him and he just had to get a look, but not from this position, not with the pole right at his head. Stomach and sight more stable he checked on Perv once more then didn't waste another second; turning his face slightly, he tilted his head back and lined his sight up with the pole.

A nail. Son. Of. A. Bitch.

Dean quickly straightened his head, checking to make sure Perv was none the wiser to his movement. Judging by the preoccupied look on his face, Perv wasn't. Dean did a small mental celebration.

A nail. Perfect. That would work on the lock box of the zip ties.

What Dean desperately needed right at this moment, was time. He moved to the middle position again. Watching Perv the entire time.

Time. Dean's mind searched for something to slow this guy down. The earlier bad-guy monologue had long since ended, too soon as far as Dean was concerned. It was time to get back a little control. See if he couldn't take the reins for a while.

There were things he'd said earlier, things about the deaths that piqued Dean's interest.

"So, you said you were careful." Dean cleared his throat. It was parched. "Did you kill the kid they found in the sewer a few weeks ago?"

Perv's arms stilled. It was several seconds before he answered. "That boy." His lips were thin. He was angry. "He'd made things... difficult."

"Really?" Dean wondered if he was reading the tone of voice right but, the guy sounded scared. "From the description in the papers, you had... nearly a hundred pounds on the kid. I don't see how that's p-possible."

"He was a fighter." Perv's anger died to frustration. Then boredom. "The drug didn't take like it usually does," he shrugged. In the next instant he looked at Dean, suspicion scrunching his eyes. “Is he the reason you're here? Was he family? Someone you loved?”

_Jeeze. Sick fucker._

Dean realized why the man was suddenly answering his questions. The fucker was changing tactics, adapting. Going all qui-pro-quo on Dean’s ass. Well, Dean could play that one too. He’d seen the movie.

"No," Dean pushed angrily back, "never met the kid. But still... you know... you-," Dean hated even saying the word, "raped him. Killed him there. Like you said, fifteen years and nothing. Why that kid? Why now?"

"There’s nothing 'now' about it." He spoke so casually, like there was nothing to any of it. "Just because no one found anything, doesn’t mean there isn’t anything to find. As for that boy last month?" Perv shrugged. "The die was cast after he got away. I was... angry. Couldn't help myself."

Dean nodded. He felt the nail continue to twist in his fingers. It was a good way to keep his hands working. Keep his mind off the pain and exhaustion. And his eyes.

"And the boy you took today - er... is it still today?"

"He was bait. Nothing more." Perv turned his head. "Don't you feel special?" Then turned back to his work.

"Yeah, just super," Dean murmured.

This time Perv only canted his head but didn't otherwise turn. "I bring them here before I kill them," he said. "It's neat. Clean. No one to find out. Like..." Again he looked lost in a memory. "Ever since...."

Dean worked through the earlier comment; something about the last person who'd been like Dean, that Perv had 'taken care of.'

"Someone else," Dean supplied. "Someone caught on to you... before me."

Perv looked at Dean this time, hard. Studied him and it was all Dean could do not to flinch. Not to show the worry he felt.

"I see the drugs aren't affecting you too badly either," Perv said knowingly.

Dean licked his lips nervously. Remembering how the creep had dosed him before; he _so_ did not want to go through that again. "You said you'd take care of me like you took care of the other one. What… other?"

Perv shrugged. "Some out-of-town cop," he said picking up a fresh syringe. Biting off the plastic cover protecting the needle, he upended a bottle of clear medicine and jabbed the needle tip into the soft cover. "An uncle to one of the boys I killed."

Dean swallowed, eyeing the syringe. Understanding now why the earlier questions. "What did you do to hi--"

"Really, Dean. You should be far more concerned about the living." The syringe loaded, Perv tapped the side as he shot a small measure into the air to release any air bubbles. "Yourself, for example."

"Oh, I am," Dean backpedaled, eyes going to the needle Perv waved in the air. The sight of it made the muscles in his tongue contract. "The boy you took to get me here, he's here somewhere?"

"You know, that other guy," Perv ignored the question. "He cracked a whole lot easier than you, I must admit." He looked at Dean. "He was weak."

"Thank you," Dean muttered. "I think."

"It was a bad month for the two of them, I guess, 'cause, given the uncle and the kid had no one else, I pretty much wiped that family out of existence."

Dean felt the edges of his outward calm slipping. What right did this thing have to obliterate and upheave families? To leave behind the agony of loss for those remaining? To instill such intense fear and terror into the last hours of small kids?

Rage boiled in Dean's veins. "Why, huh?" he seethed. Anger lessening his fear of the needle and the threat of another dose. "Why kids? Why... any of it?" And when Perv didn't seem inclined to answer, he practically shouted in anger and frustration, "Why do you do it, you sick freak?!”

"Because they looked like him!" The asshole shouted back. It was clear Perv's control was slipping too.

Dean stared back at him. Confused.

Perv took a breath, reining back some of his control, though not all. "They all looked like him," he said through clenched teeth. Calm, but just barely. He dropped his gaze to the dirt floor of the barn. "They had no right. And I needed. And... Frankie's dead. He should stay dead."

Ah, finally a source of contention for this thing. A subject that, for the first time, made him lose his monster cool.

Frankie...

"Woah," Dean whispered. "You are one sick puppy."

The name sent Dean's sluggish mind racing. Limping was more like, because his head ached, his arms were cramping over head and blood kept leaking from his chest, pooling in the waistband of his jeans. Try as he might, he couldn't remember...

It was no use, so Dean asked, "Who or what is... Frankie?"

The question died on his lips when the syringe plunged into his arm. Dean jerked in surprise.

On the up side, this time it hadn't gone in through his mouth. That was a horror and pain he'd never, ever forget.

The effect was still the same. Dean's heart started racing. His sight started doubling and making odd shapes of the room's contents. It was fast. It was effective. It made goose flesh rise and jump all over his skin; felt like a million needles were trying to shove out from underneath.

"Know what this is?" Perv's voice sounded freakishly calm.

Dean's head bounced up. Jesus, he hadn't realized he'd let his head fall down.

It was like his mind was finding new ways to shut out what his eyes couldn't. And wasn't that just freaky?

Perv stood in front of him, feet planted wide like a matador, ready to stick a long sword into the bleeding bull. Though, instead of a sword, this matador held a pole. It was maybe twenty-five inches in length and at the tip there were two wire prongs. The other end, the handle, was long, with a rectangular-shaped grip.

So... maybe not so far off from that matador image after all.

"Uh… a baton? Lemme guess," Dean smirked. It felt sloppy and ineffective. "Y' always... wanned t' be a... twirler... ev'r since yew're a lil' girrrl."

The smile on Perv's face was a scary thing to regard. In an overly dramatic display, he slowly lowered the tip of the stick and touched it to a nearby stable door's bracket. The light touch sent electric blue light arcing upward from the metal prongs.

The rickety door bounced and jerked under the current. It was like a miniature lightning bolt that lacked thunder, but still crackled in the cold air, enough to raise every hair on Dean's arms.

Fuck. _Well ain't that just fucking dandy?_ This night just kept getting better and better.

Now would be a really good time for the cavalry to show. Dean didn't dare give the cavalry a name. Could no longer trust himself not to accidentally say the name aloud.

"It's sorta like a cattle prod. The thing ranchers use to herd stubborn animals, get them to do what they want." Perv spoke while studying the metal prongs. "This one belonged to my granddaddy, back in the day. I kept it after he died."

"Well," Dean licked his lips nervously, "never pegged you for the sentimental type." God, he hoped that sounded more lighthearted than petrified.

"You'd be surprised," Perv said with the barest hint of a smile, then he was walking toward Dean, toying with the rod. He touched it to various metal objects, watching in sick fascination the way the arc of blue light crackled in the room.

Dean swallowed at the way the faintest of touches sent objects flying away backwards. "Neat trick," he tried unsuccessfully to laugh it off.

"Curious, I did some research and found there's a similar thing called a picana." Perv played with the cord a moment. "Amazing what you can find on the internet ain't it?"

"Yeah." Dean swallowed bitterly. "Ain't progress somethin'?"

"Unlike the cattle prod, the picana was designed specifically for human torture. It works at very high voltage and low current so as to maximize pain and minimize the physical marks left on the victim."

The description was all so clinical, so cold. Dean found himself shivering, probably had been for a while, but hadn’t realized it until now.

"I made some," Perv looked at Dean, made sure he’d got the hunter's attention, "modifications. ‘Cause you see, I want both the pain _and_ the marks. The burns. The bubbling flesh. So tell me Dean, you ever had 12,000 volts course through your body?”

Dean blanched but held utterly still. He had, in fact. His eyes rolled from Perv to the prod and back again.

The rod lowered toward his chest. "So, you feel like answering my questions now? Or do you want to know what it's like to be electrocuted?"

"Been there. Done that." The hunter's carefully sculpted facade slipped only a second before the anger returned, masking his fear. "So, bring it on, motherfucker."

Perv did just that. The prod made contact.

At first, Dean couldn’t draw air into his lungs to voice the excruciating pain radiating through him. The restraints holding him creaked and groaned as all of Dean’s muscles clinched and he bucked. Fighting against the relentless current ripping through his body. The cords in his neck strained. He felt like his eyes would burst from their sockets.

His mouth was open and ready to release any sound.

Dean’s vision jerked and shook and his back arched. He sought that place in his mind, tried hard to leave the agony behind him. Separate himself from the here and now.

It snapped to the surface, riding that current of pain as it fissured, drawing taut every muscle and tendon in his body. At least then, Dad had been around. Ready to catch him when he fell.

The memory of that first encounter with electricity came to mind...

 

>   
>  **_...THEN  
>  September, 1995_ **
> 
> **_They_** _were just outside of Wolf Point, Montana, after midnight, a Black Dog hot on their heels. The bright full moon lit the way as Dean, with Sam a few strides ahead, tore out across an open pasture._
> 
> _Wolf Point. How perfect. How unreal. How un-fucking-believable?_
> 
> _There wasn’t time to think about that as the ground underfoot squished and squelched. It was all either of them could do not to slip and go down in a heap. Become puppy chow for some demonic beast._
> 
> _The rain had stopped an hour ago, but they were both soaked to the skin. The ground was utterly saturated; it made keeping their footing nearly impossible, especially when you were running for your damn life._
> 
> _The big dog wasn't even supposed to be there; it was supposed to be a simple spirit, a ghost. Even so, all Dean and Sam were supposed to do was some light recon; far from the actual sightings, they weren't part of the actual hunt. It was little more than busywork, per Dad's orders; get in, take some EMF readings and get back._
> 
> _Simple._
> 
> _Like hell!_
> 
> _The thing had come at them out of nowhere and their reactions had been immediate._
> 
> _Dean, at sixteen, could still outrun his twelve-year-old brother. Knowing this, he'd lagged back, distracted the beast chasing them. Given it the weaker member of the herd to focus on. Give Sam a better chance._
> 
> _Sam had started to look back._
> 
> _"Move Sammy! Hurry!" The anxiety in his voice had been enough. Sam had faced front and taken off._
> 
> _Dean was immediately relieved; inwardly, he was petrified._
> 
> _Just a few more yards. Then, Sam would have a decent enough head start, he'd be in the clear._
> 
> _The brothers spread out. Dean slowed then shot quickly to the right._
> 
> _The move on the wet ground almost cost him his footing, but he managed to stay upright, to keep his feet moving. Even made up the time he'd lost. Then again, he was highly motivated, what with the Black Dog closing in and all._
> 
> _The four-legged, drooling, snarling pursuer was still there too. The snap of jaws and growling was proof enough. Just as Dean had hoped, the thing had followed him, not Sam._
> 
> _And boy, did that thing follow him._
> 
> _And follow him..._
> 
> _Even though it was a few yards back — and closing — Dean could smell it. The Black Dog. It smelled of death, and blood and... wet dog._
> 
> _Maybe this would break Sam of his constant whining for them to get a dog. Dean had always supported his efforts, not that he'd thought it a practical thing to own a dog and live on the road, but it kept Sam in line with him a little._
> 
> _Not anymore, though. Now, Dean would be on Dad's side._
> 
> _After a mile more, Dean's legs began to burn; his lungs felt ready to explode and the sound of his own heart hammering in his ears was so loud he couldn't even tell if the dog was still after him. No way in hell he was looking back to find out._
> 
> _An enraged snarl sent his spine crawling and the 'oh shit' moment in his brain shot more endorphins through his blood. Fear gave him a new burst of speed. Dean's legs pumped faster, like he hadn't already run two miles._
> 
> _Feet churning, arms pumping, Dean wondered if Bobby was still at the truck and if Sam had managed to get back there or–_
> 
> _Dean squinted into the moonlit landscape ahead of him. A fence._
> 
> _He didn't break stride._
> 
> _It wasn't just a fence._
> 
> _The boys had already clowned around with this fence earlier. It was the same fence that ran all across this valley. The same fence they'd been warned about._
> 
> _It was electric._
> 
> _The dog snarled viciously like it knew Dean's dilemma. Like it was smelling victory. Or dinner._
> 
> _"Well, fuck you!" Dean shouted over his shoulder._
> 
> _Lowering his head, he surged forward. This would be piece of cake. Dean had managed to jump higher than that in training. He could do this. Easy._
> 
> _With any luck, the dog’s fat ass wouldn’t allow for it to jump after Dean. With some luck it wouldn't see the fence and fry._
> 
> _Not far now. Dean calculated the distance. Eight more steps. Checked his stride._
> 
> _It was jump or die. Or it was miss and die. The dog would get him or the electric fence would._
> 
> _Wait. That was die or die._
> 
> _Three._
> 
> _Two._
> 
> _One._
> 
> _Dean coiled and lifted his legs in the same movement, pushing with the right one as the left stretched in front of him, arms spread to the sides to steady his flight. Like a hurdler in the Olympics. Easy as pie! Midway through the air, he was already calculating his next move; hit the ground. Roll to his feet. Up and run. No pr—_
> 
> _Dean's flight ended with a heart-dropping rip._
> 
> _Something caught and tugged at the bottom of his jeans. The snagged fabric stopped him midair, pulling him back. Halted his forward motion._
> 
> _Now, Dean was going down. Arms flailing._
> 
> _He had only time to look at the traitorous hem of his jeans. Frayed material wrapped on the barbed wire._
> 
> _Fuck._
> 
> _Dean went from airborne to laid-out in three seconds. Flat. Literally._
> 
> _Air gushed from his lungs on impact. Mind addled when his head struck rocky ground._
> 
> _Flat on the muddy surface. Save for his legs. Unfortunately._
> 
> _Those remained tangled in the barbed wire of the fence._
> 
> _That was so not good, but Dean's mind was still spinning._
> 
> _In seconds the current hit him hard and fast. Dean's body jerked and shifted. Helplessly. Thrown about like a rag doll._
> 
> _Dean quickly remembered why it wasn't good. Water. Electricity._
> 
> _Pain arced down his soggy leg. It started at his trapped ankle and traveled all the way up to the tips of his hair. The ends, he was sure, were spitting out bright blue lightning bolts._
> 
> _Dean’s vision jerked constantly. He couldn't see well enough to get himself unsnagged. Couldn't think well enough to care._
> 
> _They'd been warned. Don't fuck with that fence. ‘It's a humdinger,' the rancher had said. 'We've had us a spot of bear trouble, so that thing’s wired strong for them sons'a bitches.'_
> 
> _Not a bear, Dean thought._
> 
> _A Black-fucking-Dog!_
> 
> _Fuck._
> 
> _Dean's vision had cracked and shattered with the current. Teeth clenched. Every muscle seizing and writhing._
> 
> _It was pure happenstance that his head was in the position it was—he sure couldn't move it—because he could watch as the dog prepared to tempt fate. It was about to jump. Stupid dog._
> 
> _It made sense. Dean had managed to land on the opposite side of where the beast stood. So the dog lowered his chest and measured his distance and jumped._
> 
> _Jeeze, it would be Dean's luck for it to clear the fence, save his crispy fried dinner from being overdone, all in time to jerk him free of the fence, drag him off and eat him._
> 
> _And then a shot rang out, the dog jerked in mid-air and dropped._
> 
> _Dead, its body landed on the fence, effectively shattering the nearest output terminal. That's what Dad had told him. Dean didn't care, because either way, the current had stopped._
> 
> _But Dean’s body didn't realize that._
> 
> _Amidst the sounds of voices shouting, some familiar, some not, and running, splashing feet, anxious calls and barked orders, Dean's body still twitched and jerked against his will. It rode the residuals, the memory of it too fresh and damaging for his muscles to let go._
> 
> _In the growing darkness, there was the slide of gravel where a car slowed to a stop. A car door, or two, he really couldn't tell how many, slammed shut. That was as much as he remembered._
> 
> _It was struggle enough just to breathe, to not puke at the rancid stench of burning flesh. His. The dog's. Didn't much matter._
> 
> _Later, when he regained consciousness — oh, and that was weird, the sense of lost time — he was in a hospital. Machines beeped and blipped. Tubes ran to his hands and arms and... other places. Places that turned his face beet-red._
> 
> _Most importantly, Dad, Sam and Bobby all slept in various chairs around the room. Everything would be fine._

**NOW**   
**October, 2005**

**As** suddenly as it had begun, the pain stopped.

Dean sucked in a noisy breath, one right after another, body trembling from the rush of adrenaline that now flowed uselessly through his body.

Riding out the tremors, Dean groaned, his head feeling light, weightless, and still too heavy for his shoulders to support. It dipped again, chin landing solidly on his chest. Muscles continued to seize making his body jerk helplessly, still locked in the throes of the electric vise that had held him too long. Too painfully in its grasp.

"You are interesting, Dean." Perv stared down at him, eyes squinting in curiosity. "Even with the drugs, you still manage to check out." He squatted. "Where do you go, huh? Do you find that person whose existence gives you hope? The one I should be looking for?"

Dean panted, struggled to rein in his racing heart. "Fuck off." The whispered epithet all he could manage at the moment.

The prod touched under Dean's chin and the reaction was immediate. He shot back, anxious for escape, only to find the waiting metal claws. They dug in, grabbed hold, ripped and Dean gasped in agony. Spine arched. Able to jerk free, he shot forward.

The movement, however, was frantic, unchecked. It was out of control. It was falling forward.

Until the rope around his neck reminded him there was nothing free in this. It tightened immediately.

Dean gasped. Caught in the rope’s strangle-hold. His body was at a loss where to turn and unconsciously, it picked the source of the least painful experience. Dean sagged back against the pole.

"Oh, now, look what you've gone and done," Perv sneered uncaring. He knelt and stared at the noose around his captive's neck. "Hmm, that looks painful."

Dean was desperate. He was pretty sure he'd have begged for Perv to stop it, if he'd been able to. He was glad he couldn't.

The world was growing dim. Perv's face fading. And just when he thought he'd let go, the rope loosened.

"You are a bother," Perv said making the noose wider.

Dean gulped in a large breath, filling, expanding his starving lungs. His head spinning dizzily, air coming in too fast for oxygen to actually do its job.

After a moment, Dean coughed. "Well," he winced as he swallowed around the roughness of his throat. "If anything, I hate... to be a bother... just... lemme go."

Perv regained his feet, but remained close. Standing over his prey like the dominant predator.

"Still a funny man," Perv said, but there was absolutely nothing humorous in the way he stared at the tip of the prod as it trailed down Dean's throat. Barely touching skin, his eyes followed, mesmerized. "I don't think you'll be funny for very much longer though."

Dean kept his gaze on Perv, turning his head only slightly to spit. Blood and saliva mixed in the dirt. Somewhere in all that, he'd bit his tongue. Great.

"Oh, I dunno...," Dean woozed. While he stilled under the feather touch, his hands didn't. "Takes a lot more than an electric dildo in the hands of a perverted creep to break me."

Like a separate part of himself, the hands moved, high up above his head, away from the other man's attention, checking to make sure the nail was still there. That he hadn't knocked it away during his convulsing.

He fought the physical sigh of relief when the bent tip bit into his fingernail. It was there.

"Another one of my modifications was this little trigger," Perv explained, the prod grazing over Dean's shoulders. "See, this way I can touch you with it and nothing happens. Unless I finger the lever. What do you think, Dean?"

Perv's voice was all... smooth and... frightening. Coaxing and coercing. Like he was checking Dean out.

The pronged tip was moving up his arms... toward his hands.

Dean stiffened. He couldn't risk Perv seeing the nail.

Frantically he pushed, shoved. Careful not to let it show. Eager to get it back into the hole he'd worked so desperately to get it out of.

Time enough to get it out again later. He hoped.

The bent metal would not be so easily returned. Shit.

Plan B.

In Dean's experience, Plan B always sucked.

"Tell you what I think. I think you and your little toy can just go fuck yourself." It got the desired effect. The prong had stopped moving. Perv was looking down at him. "I get plenty of action with real, actual breathing women. But if you and your 'lil electric... _friend_ wanna be alone, don't le'me keep you."

Perv's face froze.

Dean had a quick 'aw fuck' moment before the prod arced. This time the contact was on his other shoulder.

The current resonated through his body, arching his back, locking him in a world of pain.

Dimly, through the agony, he felt his head tap uncontrollably in a rapid-fire succession against the pole. The dimly lit barn flashed and crackled behind his open eyes.

Then it stopped.

But Dean couldn't. The current ceased, but the tremors didn't. His muscles held him up. Locked in place. Spasming.

How long, he couldn't say but it was like the floor had been snatched out from under his feet. His body collapsed.

The aftershocks rolled through him, one after another, painful and difficult to fight against. They spread from his shoulder where the prod had just touched, it felt like a million tiny fire ants crawling beneath his skin, devouring him from within.

“I know your type.” Perv's voice cut through the haze of quivering flesh that was Dean.

“Beli--eve me," Dean swallowed hard, "you du--nno sh-shit ‘bout me.”

Even through the stutter, the sound of his own voice just then, stronger and more coherent, led Dean to a bizarre realization; the two shocks had pushed back the fog swamping his brain. Thought and speech cleared considerably.

Given a choice, he'd much rather just take a couple caffeine pills, or you know, just stopped the friggin’ torture already! But, beggars couldn't be choosers and Dean would be damned if he'd beg.

The effects didn't seem to last, however. The clouds, along with their fuzzy edges seemed to close in again. His sight began to melt and ooze. Between each lingering flinch, his mind turned over, flipped.

“You’re one of those guys who pretends that if you’re tough enough -” the tip of the prod trailed down along the curve of Dean’s neck even as the man spoke - “that if you act like you don’t care, it won’t hurt as much.”

"Everyone’s a frigging Dr. Phil these days," Dean muttered. _Scarily, though? He’s pretty much dead on the money,_ he relented internally.

“Yeah, well, I know your type, too.” He swallowed against his dry, thick tongue. “Typical whiny ass who blames his poor upbringing, or whatever, to justify what he does.” Dean sighed. God, his head hurt. “But really, you’re just a very sick puppy.”

Dean's own words rolled around in his head. Could it really be that simple? This really was some perverted, psychotic, human nut-job?

The fiberglass rod stopped its downward descent just at Dean’s sternum. The hunter couldn’t help but inhale slightly, in preparation for the pain.

One heartbeat.

"I’m afraid that won’t actually work this time.” Perv started the rod in its downward trail again. "See, I've seen too many men, tough men too, and they all succumb in the end. They all beg. They all cry. They're all pathetic."

The direction the rod was traveling was leaving Dean more than uncomfortable, he was getting downright scared; IT moved in that same slow, downward progression, that it was only a matter of time before it reached places that Dean was certain he wouldn’t be able to handle. Sweat oozed from his pores, flowing in rivulets down his skin, soaking the waistband of his jeans.

It wasn't fear, really. Dean had been in sticky situations before. It was freezing in the barn and while he shivered, some phantom heat, whether from the burns, or the pain of the cuts, or from… something Dean couldn't figure out, left him too warm and sweating.

"See, life's about to get very unpleasant for you, Dean."

"Really?" Dean tried to blink. Forgot about the tape. "Cause up to now we've been having such fun?"

Another trickle of sweat joined the multitude of rivulets streaming down Dean's back. The prod now skimmed languidly over his stomach, in a zig-zag motion.

"Oh, it's more than fun for me. I plan to make you beg for me to kill you. Which of course, I'll only do if you tell me what I want to know."

"You know, I'm sensing a pattern here." Dean jerked, his breathing hitched. Another in a series of painful aftershocks wracked his upper body. "Your issues start and end with farm animals. Bet you got a favorite sheep stashed somewhere in this barn."

The grin Dean attempted faltered, riding the muscle spasms that also pulled at his face.

"I bet you know that water is a great conductor of electricity, but, did you also know that sweat...” Perv grinned, letting that last word hang between them before adding, “a body's own perspiration, well, did you know that it’s even better? "

“Oh, God.” Dean feigned boredom. “Really? Of all the perverts in the world and I had to get a Chatty Cathy?” Deep down, however, he knew what Perv was talking about. That knowledge sent a fresh spike of tremors traveling down his already spasming spine.

“And because of all the salt and other minerals in its content...” Perv's gaze slid down his face, latched onto a bead of sweat that Dean felt moving down his forehead. Before it got past the bridge of his nose, Perv snaked out a finger and captured it. “That makes it, well, just the best conductor of them all," he said, and stuffed the sweat-coated finger in his own mouth.

Dean grimaced as Perv sucked off the body fluid, grinning around the digit at his captive's horrified face.

“Alright Bill Nye, the Science Guy.” Dean growled. “Fuck the class lesson already and get to the point.”

Sweat and electricity, he knew were a dangerous combination. So much so that he needed to stall, to play dumb.

"The point, Dean," Perv continued, his tone matter-of-fact and devoid of anything other than immoral curiosity at the human suffering that he was about to inflict. "You're sweating quite a bit and I imagine this is gonna hurt really. Really. Bad."

Dean huffed. "Well, it hasn't exactly tickled so far."

The prod touched his belly button. The pain. The shock. The current. It ripped through Dean like a shot.

Caught in the radiating current, he lacked any control and was repelled backward. There, he writhed helplessly against the barbed pole. Beating against it. Repeatedly. The mind-numbing pain left him empty of anything else and he felt nothing of the flesh ripping from his back.

However, he didn't care about any of it. That pain was secondary. The locked, burning muscles, they were what mattered.

Then it stopped.

It had hurt too much to cry out during. Afterward, it just didn't seem like enough.

Exhausted, Dean remained upright, held only by the ties around his wrists and the rope around his neck. Helpless to fight off the aftershocks.

"You know the deal," Perv's voice wavered through Dean's tremble-locked mind. "Tell me what I want to know, and we won't drag this out. I'll end it right now. Right here."

"What? And m-miss all th-the fun?"

The tremors competed with his own real fear at what Perv had in mind and whether or not Dean could survive it. Try as he might to conceal his fear, the aftershocks rocked him at unpredictable intervals, making his voice stutter, sound weak.

Perv sat back on his heels, eyes traveling over Dean's torso, and further still. It was not the first time Dean had seen something akin to hunger and longing in them, lurking just below the surface. But it was noticeably stronger this time.

And so quickly pushed back. Clouded by darkness and… revelation.

As discomforting as the roving, nearly lustful gaze was, that last look, one with the sense of a new plan made Dean’s stomach drop.

Head canted to the side, Perv’s eyes trailed along his prisoner’s legs, turning where his knees bent and folded his legs beneath him. Moving to where Dean’s bare feet, secured at the ankles, poked out on either side of the post.

Dean braced for another kick. Actually hoped for it. Anything was better than being ogled by a perverted psychopath. The fact that he could no longer see the man left Dean feeling nervous and fidgety. He’d rather see it coming than sit and be blindsided. Not seeing, not knowing - that was terrifying.

”There are some,” Perv’s breath puffed into his left ear, moving like he was adjusting something. “Some very specific places on the human body to which electric shock, if applied, is far more painful than anywhere else.”

“N-no shit?” Dean coughed, jaw clenched against the pain of another tremor. “Well, wh-why don’t we trade places an’ let m-me do the driving for once.”

“The feet, for example,” Perv continued. “They have more nerve endings per inch of skin than anywhere else on the body. Did you know that? No? Well, let’s start there, shall we?"

Dean never got a chance to answer. Not that he’d thought he would. It was really just a sick man enjoying the sound of his own voice.

This pain was beyond description.

It ripped and tore at Dean’s soul, radiated and permeated all through his body, raking and slicing him up from the inside out. All it took was a gentle touch of the prongs to the base of his right foot. The agony was indescribable.

It rocketed up Dean’s spine. It exploded behind his eyes.

It rocked Dean’s world.

Before he hadn’t thought it possible, but now his mind conceded; this was, without a doubt, the worst pain he’d ever experienced.

 

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**The** screaming started again and Jeremy drew his knees to his chest, closed his eyes. Drawn into a tight ball, he waited and prayed it would stop.

The old and rusted pipe that ran nearly the length of the room overhead, shook and rattled barely able to contain the sounds of agony. Wherever they came from, the sounds were magnified in the metal cylinder, the cries echoing and bouncing until they spilled out of the severed end, filling the room just for Jeremy to hear. Perhaps it was a glimpse of what fate had in store for him and it left him shivering harder. Tears fell, running over his cheeks until they spilled to the ground, making his face cooler in the cold of his prison.

Jeremy clamped his hands over his ears. It did little good.

The suffering and agony bled through Jeremy's small fingers, oozing in and filling his head and he clamped down even harder. Tears fell, over his cheeks, dropping off his face, making his face cooler in the cold of his prison.

Jeremy wasn't scared; he was beyond that. He was terrified. And maybe something else...

The tears that dripped heavily from his face weren't just out of fear for his own end, but for the blatant torment that someone was enduring on his behalf. Guilt filled in where fear seemed to be not enough.

Heedless of the too-tight cuff that dug harshly into his already bruised wrist, Jeremy pressed his palms tightly against his ears, this time hoping the tighter vacuum of his hands would be enough to mask the terrifying noise.

It wasn’t.

Unable to stand it any longer, Jeremy tilted his head back and added a shout of his own. Anything to try and drown out the man's pain. But even when he didn’t hear him, Jeremy could still see him: the man from the alley. In his mind's eye.

The man with the green eyes, the one who’d tried to help some random kid he didn’t even know. Jeremy had spent enough time on the streets to know that people didn’t just do that. They didn’t race across a busy street to protect and save some snotty brat they’d never seem before.

Everyone else they'd passed had looked away. Had thought nothing of the blood on Jeremy's head. Or the panic and fear on his face. Too self-involved or just too damn busy with their lives to worry about some trouble-making kid.

Except for some reason, this guy had thought it odd. Unlike everyone else, this guy had known what the others all around them hadn’t: Billy wasn’t what he seemed. Billy was dangerous.

Those screams, those horrible and pain-filled screams could only belong to him. When the car had finally come to a stop, Jeremy, from the backseat of the car, bound and helpless, had surfaced in time to watch as Billy had dragged his would-be savior’s unconscious body from the trunk of the car, to the barn.

The shouts stopped. Jeremy pulled his hands from his ears, hesitated, then breathed in a sigh. The quiet wouldn’t last long. It never did.

When he'd first awoken in that dark, cold, concrete prison, with no idea how long he’d been there, where ‘there’ was, or what might happen to him... Jeremy had prayed for sound. A roar of a car, speeding by outside; his mom’s angry shouts, demanding to know where her son was; a freaking dog barking in the distance… anything but the hungry silence of the place he was in.

There was a woman’s voice, once in while, drifting from upstairs, angry. Always angry. Jeremy figured that she sounded a bit like his mom, whenever he came home with another note from the school’s principal.

He couldn’t really tell what she was angry about. Half the time, he couldn’t even tell if she was real or just some character on TV. She was the only sound that Jeremy could hear from upstairs, and he’d long stopped hoping that she might come down to help him.

Whenever he moved, Jeremy could hear the clinking of cold steel, as it pulled at his right wrist where a handcuff tightly secured his bony limb. The cuff was linked to a chain about the length of his body and anchored to the wall next to a set of stairs. Except for a bare light bulb in the center of the exposed beam ceiling, the remainder of the room was dark.

It wasn’t long after Jeremy had regained consciousness before Bill had descended the stairs, demanding to know who the man was. If it was some family member, friend of the family, friend of one of his friends. Anyone.

When Jeremy couldn't supply an answer short of, "I don't know. I've never seen him before!" he'd left. Studied Jeremy for a moment then left.

It was maybe an hour later and the shouts of pain had begun. Agonizing and visceral. And angry. Whoever this guy was, he was fighting it.

The pipes weren’t big enough for Jeremy to understand all the words, but he'd caught onto one. A name. Billy said it over and over again, angry voice filled with derision and mockery.

The word was clear enough that he was sure. Dean.

That had to be the man from the alley. The man who'd tried to stop all this. Who'd tried to save him. Who was now trapped. Like him. In hell. Jeremy's guardian angel...

So much for guardian angels.

Billy, the one who’d kidnapped him and Dean, the one who was in pain because of him. There were more whispers and mumbles, and it was only when Billy seemed more insistent that the name rang clearest.

It didn't really matter what his name as now. Nothing mattered. Because, Jeremy was sure that, once Billy was done with his anonymous rescuer, Jeremy would be next.

“You’re early.”

Jeremy’s head shot up. “What the…?” he said and scrambled back, casting an anxious, confused look at the stairs. It was some other man, older than Bill, shorter than the stranger. Jeremy had no idea how this guy had gotten down there without the stairs squeaking on him. “Wh-who are you?”

Unfortunately, Jeremy’s retreat was cut short when his back connected with the concrete wall. Now, if he could just disappear….

The large, heavyset man stood not twenty feet away, his back to Jeremy, seemingly fascinated with the only brick wall in the otherwise solid concrete prison.

Whoever this guy was, it definitely wasn’t Bill.

“They’re dead," the stranger continued, his voice distant, almost disconnected. "But I hear them all the time.” He twisted, pierced Jeremy with his sad gaze. “The one in the barn is too old… grown up, too mature…”

“Wh-who a-are you?” Jeremy asked again.

“Too bad.” The man looked at the wall. “’Cause now you’ll have to wait here until Billy’s done… playing.”

“P-playing?”

A sad smile crept across the man’s face. “Billy was always such a sensitive child and I… I was no father to him—not like I should’ve been.” The stranger turned fully and moved toward Jeremy. The dim light from the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling highlighted his thinning hair, unshaven face and pale skin. He fixed a pointed gaze at Jeremy.

“Father? You’re Bill’s–”

The man nodded. “Not a good father, though.” Remorse played across his face. “Maybe if I’d stopped her from killing that boy...” Shaking his head, he continued, “Well, maybe none of this would’ve happened.”

Jeremy’s mind caught on the word ‘killed’ and he started trembling.

“Then again…,” the stranger added. “Margret never should’ve–” His face grew clouded and angry. “She’s insane,” he snarled and glared up the staircase. “Always has been. It’s her fault he turned out this way.”

Jeremy didn't really want to know but knowing nothing was worse. "Wh-what way?" he stuttered out, nerves getting the better of him.

“A killer. Insane, just like her.”

Jeremy's eyes closed. A killer. _Please God... please God, please God, please..._ "Wh-who did she kill?” he asked and swallowed.

“Frankie,” he looked Jeremy over, “was fourteen years old, a fragile kid, hair like straw. A lonely kid. Unwanted. Like all the others." Held Jeremy's eyes a second and added, "Like you.”

“That’s not true!” Jeremy shouted as he swiped angrily at the tears tracking down his cheeks. “My old man, he’ll send the cops looking for me," he lied, anything to make them let him go. "He loves me! He cares!”

The man was nodding his head, his face grim. “You’re wrong,” the visitor countered, head canted to one side in sorrow. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be here.” The man sighed. “No, he always picks the Frankies of the world. The lost boys. No one ever says anything until days after they're gone. Sometimes never.”

Jeremy swallowed. This time he let the tears fall. It was true, all of it. No one would come. There was no dad out there to call the cops.

“Frankie and Billy were always together. Best friends in the world. Just like you and Billy will be.” The man calling himself Bill’s dad shifted nervously. “She didn’t like that. Didn’t like seeing them together. Billy is _her_ boy. Hers alone. She gets terribly jealous.”

“Jealous?” Jeremy didn’t understand. “B-because he had a friend?”

Billy's dad straightened, his eyes cast into the distance, as if he were looking into a past, a time he’d much rather forget. “Margret was so angry. Billy is _her_ son. _Hers_. She’d made him hers, years before, when she..." he grimaced, the unfinished thought leaving a bad taste in his mouth. "Billy screamed then, just the same as all those boys have been screaming now, here." The man started weeping openly, lowering his face to his hands. "I’m a bad, bad father… should’ve stopped her, should stop her, should stop him…”

Understanding was dawning on Jeremy and he didn’t like what he was hearing. “Wh-who is Margret?”

“Billy’s momma.”

Gazing fearfully at the stairs, Jeremy swallowed. Now, for the first time, he realized that the woman's voice he'd heard earlier... had been real. Suddenly, he was very happy that she had never come downstairs to ‘help’ him.

“She killed Frankie.”

Jeremy made a gut-punched gasp. He was so fucked. So. Very. Fucked.

The man started turning his gaze back to the wall. Staring. “She’s crazy, she made our son like her,” he looked at Jeremy, “and I can’t stop any of it. I’m sorry.”

Bill’s father started toward the stairs, head down, one hand covering his mouth.

“W-wait!” Jeremy called anxiously.

The man stopped at the stairs and looked at Jeremy. “Beg. When he… he forgets who you are and calls you Frankie… beg. Billy hates it when they beg. He’ll end it sooner. Make it quick. Less painful.” Placing one foot on the first step he made to leave.

“Please!” Jeremy moved toward the man, pulling to the end of the chain that kept him secured to the wall, just out of reach. “You don’t have to be sorry. Just, get me out of here!” Jeremy couldn’t help the desperation that crept into his voice.

The man seemed to hesitate at that. Jeremy felt hope swell.

“I can’t. I–”

“Hal!” A woman’s voice shrilled from upstairs; the man flinched, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and defeat. “Get your worthless ass up here!”

“See,” he said when he opened his eyes again, looking at Jeremy, sadness and defeat swimming all around him. “I’m worthless. I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

“But, I don’t wanna die!” Jeremy shouted at his back. “You can stop this. Let me go!”

At the top of the stairs a door opened and for a moment Jeremy saw the man’s silhouette, the darkness of the basement outlining him with the light from whatever room the door opened into. Jeremy could tell he was looking down at him again. Hesitating again.

Then the door closed. The room sank back into the light of the one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Jeremy dropped to the ground, and cried.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)


	7. Chapter 7

  
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**“Time** to wake up, Dean,” a voice teased in the darkness.

"Just five more minutes, Mom," Dean murmured back, head down, eyes closed.

Earlier, when the agony had ceased, he'd felt his world collapse internally. Darkness had folded, taken him down. Sheltered him in blissful nothingness. No smell of charred, burned flesh. No slimy sneers from his tormentor. No tormentor, period.

Now, he drifted below the surface of consciousness, body already screaming in pain. No idea how much time had passed but he was still in no hurry to return to reality.

The voice trying to coax him back wasn't Dad’s, he knew that now. Wasn't mom’s either, _definitely_ knew that. She was there, in his dream, or memory, the happy place he'd clung to when the pain had become just too much.

He’d gone back to happier times, like the time when at four years old he and Mom had played hide and seek all over the house. Rain outside meant a bored toddler inside. Mom had hid her eyes while Dean had raced around the house, searching for the perfect hiding spot, a smile on his face.

Caught up in the excitement of the game, he'd hidden in the closet, forgetting his lack of fondness for dark places. It hadn't been too bad, he'd managed to stay put, stay quiet, remain calm for what felt like hours. All the while hearing Mom's soft footfalls around the house, floorboards creaking under bare feet, her soft voice trying to coax him out of hiding.

Then he'd heard it. The voice. It had whispered to him, evil, malicious things. It had promised to take away everything he held dear. Everything and everyone he loved; Mom, Dad, Sammy...

Paralyzed with fear, he'd sat still. Tears rolling down his face. Something had touched him. Long fingers of darkness reaching out for him and he had bolted. Heedless of his sleeping baby brother. Screaming, he'd flung open the door and run. Hadn't gone far before Mom had reached him. Light surrounding her entire being, arms wide, safe, comforting, loving, swallowing him up in her love and promises.

In his mind's eye, he could still see her face. Soft eyes. Warm smile... felt the side of his own face lift, warmth spreading throughout him...

Something pushed under his chin and forced his head up. Insistent. Demanding his return. "Rest time’s over." It was the same evil voice from a moment ago, but this time it was tense and demanding instead of just frightening.

The image faded and Dean knew instantly who was intruding in his dream world. The insistent press saved Dean the admission that he was too weak to lift his head of his own volition. Truth was, he was beyond exhausted and his eyes refused to open.

Dean's brow furrowed.... _Eyes refused to open...?_ There was something about that… it somehow felt like a victory, even if Dean couldn’t fathom a single reason why closed eyes should be so important.

The constant shocks, the aftereffects, the burning of his flesh, the resulting damage of the arcing current from the prod, the drugs, the earlier knife cuts…

All of it had exacted a toll. Dean felt raw, ragged. Near his limit.

It was a first in the older Winchester brother's life. Something he'd never contemplated. A most disparaging thought as for the first time in his existence, he wondered how much longer he could hang on.

"You got a real smart mouth on you boy," Perv said, his voice soft. And close again. Too goddamn close. "Yes indeed... very," he cooed. Something ran along Dean's lower lip and Dean recoiled back. “Too bad the rest of you isn’t as smart.”

Even with his eyes closed, Dean could ‘see’ the way Perv was touching him. One grimy, molesting finger, outlining his face, sampling the feeling of his lips. The touch was too... intimate. Unwanted.

"Son of a..." Dean jerked his head away from the touch and glared heatedly at his captor. "I'm gonna fuckin'... kill you," he gritted between clenched teeth. "I swear to God..."

"Ooh, I'm shakin' in my boots." Perv was kneeling next to him but still managed an imposing figure. He dropped the hand he'd been using to caress his captive and smiled suddenly. "No wait. I think that's you, only minus the boots."

"I don't need boots to kick your ass, fuckwad," Dean ground out angrily.

Frustration boiled in Dean’s gut. This sitting— er… kneeling in some shit-smelly, cold-as-fuck barn, in nothing more than his jeans, while sweat and blood coursed in equal measures down his torso, was getting old fast.

It galled him, his inability to stave off the weakness, stop his body's reactions, fight back with some kind of physical force. Bound. Useless. Worst of all... helpless. It pissed him off.

The older Winchester didn't do helpless very well; it kept him filled with a rage so intense it rolled through him in waves, riding the currents that locked and jerked him even after the prod was long gone.

That was fine though, the anger. Dean would use that. Make that his weapon. Let it fuel his drive to survive. Give him something to look forward to: revenge.

Well, provided he didn't die in the process. That would make revenge a little tougher to hand out.

"Why would you want to kick my ass?" Perv's eyes blinked in wonder. “Dean, it wounds me that you could be so uncharitable given what I did for you." He recoiled, a mock display of affront on his face. "Especially when you’ve given me nothing in return… not even a name.”

That got Dean’s attention. He forced his eyes open. Perv’s face remained out of focus. “Wh-what you did… _for_ me?”

Perv inched closer, his knees practically touching Dean's. Eyes hungry and roving, searching, wondering. And Dean could only endure it. See the validation of his earlier suspicions.

The hunger. The intimacy. The need. It was all there. Open and bare for him to see and feel. It oozed off Perv in waves.

It rolled through Dean’s mind. Gave him a bad case of the willies. At the same time it gave him pause. Maybe he could use it. Push aside his own revulsion and make it work for him. Better a little discomfort to escape than to die a slow, agonizing death. Push for the Perv’s needs and sympathy rather than antagonize the fucker.

It was his best chance to get back to Sam. To do his job. To keep his brother safe.

The reverse of that coin wasn’t lost on Dean either. If he were to break. If he couldn’t go through with it as far as it was needed to get what he wanted… if he lost it and gave Sam up, revealed that he did have someone out there who was looking for him... all would be lost, for him and Sam.

“Right after you passed out, I removed the tape from your eye and the rope off your neck.”

The mention of it made Dean blink his eyes reflexively. His mind worried it was a lie. It wasn’t; his eyelids flexed on command, though very slowly.

Thank God…

“Wh—“ Dean coughed, his throat parched, mouth feeling full of cotton, eyes blazing suspiciously at Perv. “Don’t expect a… cookie or som’thin.”

More glimpses of hunger. Of loneliness. Unlike earlier, Perv seemed unable or unwilling to hide them this time. They lingered, just on the edge of his countenance.

“You’ve been out for some time. Mostly muttering in your delirium.” He twirled the wand around in one hand, his eyes following its movement. "I think you're feverish, among other things."

It wasn't the dismissive way in which Perv stated his obviously diminished condition. It wasn't the lack of caring. It was the fact that his body was giving out. And if he'd talked in his unconsciousness...

What had he said? Had he given up his brother in his dreams?

The thought brought about a flare of panic. Panic he doused quickly. Perv was staring at him. Curiously.

Perv smirked. “It was mostly gibberish, but my, my, such an anguished life you’ve led.” He leaned in close. “Builds character. No wonder you’ve held out so long. And no wonder," he pressed his hand against Dean's chest, hesitating before dragging it vertically across, "I find myself enjoying your pain.”

“Enjoying?” Dean shook his head, trying to hide his nervous anticipation and fear of what was surely coming. “Man, you’re a sick motherfucker, I’ll give you that.”

“You’ll give me so much more by the time I’m through with you. I never let the other one rest. Then again, he'd only made it a few hours before he was begging me to kill him."

"And you obliged," Dean retorted.

"I gave him what he wanted, after he’d given me what I wanted—"

"After you tortured him, you mean." Dean felt his gut churn with anger.

"Of course. I had to be sure he’d acted alone. That no one would follow in his path. In the end, he told the truth. In the end he begged for death. Lasted only half a day, half the amount of pain I've given you."

Dean was trembling. It had nothing to do with the muscle spasms, the cold or the fever-heated flesh that sent sweat pouring down his body. It was anger. Rage. Hands flexing with need to wrap his fingers around this guy’s throat...

"No one's coming for me," Dean seethed, "but when I get free, I'm coming for you. I promise you that."

"I don't doubt that, in top physical condition, you could. You're a big man. Strong." Perv's eyes raked him. "Not now, though. Not physically, At least. Mentally... I am curious," he leaned in close to Dean's face, "at just how long you can hold out against the pain. How much more you can take.”

Dean refused to show discomfort. Refused to let the fact that the prod constantly ghosting over his flesh filled him with fear and trepidation. Refused to look away with anything other than contempt.

Instead, Dean held Perv’s gaze before he too leaned in, until their faces were inches apart. “Bring it. Asshole.”

They held like that. Each of them challenging. Each refusing to bend, to retreat.

Then one side of Perv’s mouth tilted in a macabre form of a grin. Inhuman and evil. He stood and faced his captive. Some kind of sick admiration in his eyes.

"How much harder can you grit your teeth against the pain, Dean?" Perv asked, face full of psychotic wonder. “It's impressive."

"Just untie me, and I'll impress you by how much I can still kick your ass."

Perv hesitated a moment. His face shut down and it was swift. Sudden. And at once Dean wished he’d kept his smart mouth shut.

"You know what?” Perv said sitting back, reassessing his captive. “I bet you could, too," he said, recanting his earlier statement on Dean's physical condition.

"You bet your ass I could." Dean basked at the retraction. But the way Perv's fingers hovered over the trigger of the prod, he just as quickly wondered at how much his victory would cost him.

"So, I guess it looks like we still have some work to do." Perv grinned a tad too maliciously.

Dean had to slow this down or there'd be little left of him if—when—he escaped or if—when—Sam showed up. Whichever came first.

"Ok fine!" Dean shouted. "FINE!" He shouted louder when the prod didn't stop. This time it stopped and it wasn't hard for Dean to look panicked, wide-eyed and fear-filled. "Alright already, just… stop. You gotta stop.”

Perv lowered the prod to his side. He stared down, expectant and suspicious.

"Listen," Dean grated, doing his best to sound defeated. "I didn't sign up for all this crap. I was hired to spread rumors, that's all."

"Rumors?" Perv asked.

"Yeah. It was some private firm. It's all about real estate man," Dean panted. "They've been trying to buy some old buildings downtown, but the owners are holding out. They still have five years on a ten year lease. So... they wanted someone to put out some bad press. Someone to prove that the neighborhood was overrun with crime."

Perv didn't look convinced yet. Though he was listening. Intently. Looking for holes in the story already.

"Go on.." Perv rolled one hand, urging him on. He took a seat on the low stool off to Dean's left and stared at him. "You've intrigued me."

Well, it was a start. "I was paid to visit some of the local businesses and ask some questions. At the school, at the clinic. At the market place. Just enough to spread rumors. Make folks afraid. I'm a private dick, hired to find a weak spot, something that would keep even the poor away. I found out about all the disappearances, about all the victims being patients of the same neighborhood clinic... made myself a fake FBI badge and gambled my chances."

"Hum." Perv rubbed his chin, thinking. "Interesting. And had you succeeded you'd have cost me my job. Made me pretty mad. You sure this is the story you wanna stick with?"

Dean forced himself not to react. Now he remembered where he’d seen this guy, where their paths had crossed. The fucking clinic where Dean had spent a whole frigging afternoon going through patient files. The same prick that was now threatening him with a electric rod had waltzed by him, shoving a mop and a bucket of soap and water like a pro. The fucking janitor at the clinic.

"Collateral damage,” Dean rushed to add, keeping his discoveries to himself. “And it obviously didn't work, so no harm no foul, right?" He closed his eyes. "God, all this over some company's urban renewal project. Son of a bitch."

It was quiet for a moment but Dean wasn't too worried. Just kept his head down, let Perv think it over. Hoped it worked. Hoped it explained his presence.

"So let’s say I believe you. When I took the boy, why did you follow? There were thousands of folks around Dean, no one gave us so much as a glance. Why did you?"

An idea, as quick as the real estate idea jumped to mind.

"That kid... he looked a lot like my little brother… when we were younger."

"A brother," he said, a glean of discovery in his eyes. "So you do have a family."

"Had. He died when he was... kidnapped by some pervert." Dean glared at Perv. "He was about the same age as that kid, too. It just hit me when he left with you. The look on his face. Just a coincidence. Bad fucking luck on my part. His part too, apparently. You didn't kill him..."

"Bad luck is an understatement. You meddled and you shouldn't have. And no, he's tucked away safe and sound. Well, sound, for the time being." Perv grinned hungrily and Dean felt his stomach turn at the thought of what that implied.

"Right. But I still wouldn't have let you hurt that kid. Still won't."

"No, Dean, you will. Because you are really in no position to do anything more. All you can do for me is hurt. You do that quite well. Give up on the boy, Dean. He's as good as dead, once I’m done with you."

 _Yeah right_ Even if he'd wanted to, Dean would not relent. Instead, he managed a passable glare, a quiet retort that clearly said, _Fuck you, mother fucker_.

"Ah, and we're back to the silent treatment again." Perv slapped his hands to the tops of his thighs then reached down and picked up the rod again. He moved over Dean's chest, stopping to let it hover near Dean's hip. "That's alright, 'cause I don't need your words anyway. I only want your pain. Scream for me Dean. Show me how you really feel."

The prongs touched Dean’s inner thigh and his world exploded. It contracted violently, coming apart from the inside out.

Dean's head snapped back against the post, again, the current crackling like multiple hot knives shooting and slicking under his skin, every direction.

It seemed to go on forever. The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. Pain traveled, slamming into his head and neck. Scream? He couldn't if he’d wanted to; his jaw was locked shut. Made excruciatingly evident by his teeth as they ground together.

Instead he just shook, the current cauterizing his nerves.

Then it stopped. Relief and agony mingled with the aftershocks as muscles attempted to rest, but were unable. Head dropped, chin on his chest, breath coming in harsh gasps.

Dean turned his head to the side, too exhausted to do more. "J-joke’s on... you... ass h-hole." The forced words cost him, but he would not give in. "Didn't... scr-scream."

Perv pushed Dean's head back, holding it still. "Well, you aren't going anywhere Dean." He growled. Yup, he was most definitely pissed. "You'll scream before I'm done. I promise you."

The prod shoved hard into Dean's gut. The trigger squeaked seconds before the crackle. Then radiant pain.

Dean's head flew back, mouth agape, eyes locked wide and open. Breath froze in his lungs. Muscles shook and vibrated as they rode the arc of current, leaving him bucking helplessly against his bindings. Back connecting with the barbs time and time again. Locked in a painful vise.

All Dean heard in his haze of pain was a roaring in his ears. Nothing more. It paled against the pain that radiated from his stomach out.

Perv was through playing games. This touch wasn't short like the others. This touch was deep, long and angry.

Fissures of current whistled through Dean's body. Muscles bunched beneath searing flesh, forced to spasm and comply. Needles pulsed and raked him from the inside.

A loud noise filled Dean's ears. Roaring in distress. Anxious for cessation.

As suddenly as it had come, it was gone. Dean collapsed against his bindings. Left gasping and reeling.

In too much agony to realize his eyes had closed and his head had dropped, but not enough to realize the prod was moving around to his back, dragging across his skin. Hot and ready.

In this moment of respite Dean swallowed copper. The flavor burned his raw throat and gave him clarity. The noise? The roaring from earlier had been him. Screaming.

Dean didn't have a chance to think more on it. No time to curse his weakness. The perverted fuck or his really bad day. The prod out of sight, Perv with it. The damn thing touched his back, pressing. Eager.

The moment it was triggered, the thing crackled and Dean jerked. The ride, it seemed was far from over.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**Sam** remembered the hunt where he'd earned his place in the family business. They'd been in Joplin, Missouri, at the time, in need of more information to assist with a hunt. It was the first time Sam had been allowed to help, though only with research. Even that much had been a struggle, mainly from Dean who'd protested heartily about Sam being only twelve years old.

Sam, however, had proven his worth, even in the most minute of ways. First, he'd found the only library within a twenty-mile radius and then he'd proceeded to show his brother and dad a more effective way of utilizing the book-clad walls. Shown them just how many layers of resources sat within those imposing walls.

After that, Dean had clapped him on the back, beamed proudly and said, “Sammy, it’s like you're some kind of geek-beacon for big-assed, dust covered books.”

In truth, he was. That statement had proven itself much of their lives and Sam had became the research expert of their little team. If there was a library within a hundred miles of a town they were in, _Sammy could smell it_ – an overstatement on Dean’s part, but not by much.

It was all a-okay with Dean, Sam knew, because just as long as Sam was stuck in a library, he was out of danger. For a while longer anyway.

Growing up as a Winchester had meant a nomadic existence, a lifestyle not of Sam's choosing. Chaotic and contentious most of the time, between hunts and fights with Dad, Sam had found solace at the library. It had become a familiar and quiet place that he'd come to appreciate. New faces had long been part of Sam's life, but he could always count on the fact that librarians, like the places they guarded, were pretty much the same everywhere.

The books. The quiet. The calm. They’d all fed Sam’s need for peace. For safety.

The so-called 'geek-beacon' had worked to his advantage today.

In abduction cases, time was not something you had much of. Statistics had proven frighteningly true; if not found in the first ten hours, most victims never were. Not alive, at least.

Sam glanced at his watch; it had been eight hours since he’d last talked to Dean. A fact that had stripped him of much of the familiar calm that the library usually gave him.

Today it was merely a tool. Familiar ground and he knew just where he needed to go once he got inside. Someplace away from prying eyes. Secluded.

This would work. He would identify that car from the alley, find the person or thing who'd taken Dean and get him back. Alive, he resolved.

A young woman stood behind the main desk. Shoulder length, mousy-colored hair framed her face, though it was tucked behind one ear with a pencil keeping it somewhat in place. Square shaped glasses sat low on her nose as she gazed at him, ready to offer assistance.

Sam strode up to the desk. "Basement level?"

"Elevator’s that way," she directed, pointing behind Sam to a wall near the periodicals. "Or the stairs there," she finished pointing over her own shoulder. "Can't miss'm."

Before she was done, Sam practically ran to the stairwell. It'd be faster, and the exercise would be a good way to work off some of his mounting tension.

Worried he'd drawn her unwarranted suspicion when he'd bolted, he stopped at the door to the stairs and looked back. He needn't have bothered; her head was down, back to him. Already having dismissed his presence.

Different as he felt inside, it hadn't been all that long since Stanford: Sam could still play the part of a college boy. If asked, she wouldn’t even remember if he had dark or light hair.

Taking the steps at a jog, he entered the basement level in more of a flurry than he'd intended.

Moving casually, Sam walked toward the back wall, glancing down each row of every shelf, making sure that the place was mostly deserted. It didn't come as a surprise when he found no one around. In his experience, except for the most studious, students avoided the basement level for two reasons: lack of windows and temperature.

Looking for a secluded spot, far from prying eyes where he could apply his illicit hacking skills, he found just what he was looking for. Near the back wall, and tucked into a corner; a small unoccupied table with two chairs.

A half dozen long strides later he plunked down the laptop and notebook. After another quick glance about, Sam pulled out a chair and sat, eager to find out what the hell was going on.

First things first; the car from the alley.

In a matter of seconds, he had the computer linked into the wifi connection and his fingers ran noisily across the keys. The first search list opened and he scanned the links, looking for the right website portal.

Foot tapping anxiously, he waded through the information, forcing his mind to focus. Information was the key, he knew that. But it didn't stem the tide of worry that grew by the minute.

Then, his eyes stopped on a particular link.

"Bingo," Sam said, eyes flaring in triumph.

The Duluth Department of Transportation traffic cam. Perfect.

Fingers flying, Sam kept his eyes on the screen, keys clicking as he worked at various codes and passwords. One after another.

It didn't take long. So far as computer security systems went, this one, with its outdated applications and firewalls, proved easy enough to hack. The grid and code built to protect the system was as ancient as, or older than, the building he sat in.

After only a few minutes of keying in code after code, the system was open, ready for whatever command he chose. The cursor inviting him forward. Keying in the alley location, a quick live feed of the cam popped open.

The time on the feed matched perfectly with the time on the laptop. Sam nodded.

"Now...," Sam murmured, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. "What time?" The date was easy, the exact hour, however, was a bit more tricky. There were many time stamps to choose from, it seemed the standard spool and archive was every fifteen minutes. He just needed to narrow it down.

Sam glanced at his watch and thought a moment. It had been late morning, before noon, when he'd talked to Dean, around ten forty-five, he guessed. The call had ended a good three minutes later.

Calculating how long it likely took Dean to reach the alley, he clicked on a backed up data file and waited for it to load. Sam drummed fingers impatiently on the table top, the other hand hovering over the play prompt on the screen. Willing it to hurry.

Normally the patient one, worry and wonder over what might be happening to Dean at this very moment overrode everything. This 'not knowing' was eating him up from the inside.

The upload pinged quietly. It was ready. Sam pushed play and watched. It started at about the time he'd lost contact with Dean, and Sam clicked on the fast forward and moved on a ways in the video.

Bodies and cars moved unnaturally fast. Shadows shifted and moved with the waning sun. It wasn't so fast Sam couldn't make out most of the details. The cam feed was jerky enough in real time.

The resolution wasn’t the greatest and the action was mostly off to the right, almost out of the shot, but it was still easily discernible. A man appeared, dragging someone smaller into the alley.

"Woah." Sam tapped the play button to freeze the image. He took a deep breath then resumed play at normal speed.

A man in what looked like... some kind of uniform, one-piece coveralls. He was shuffling backward, into the frame and Sam leaned in, squinting at the screen. It was a kid, struggling weakly in his captor's arms, being dragged. The man kept glancing back, like someone was following him.

"Dean," Sam murmured, sitting up straighter.

The two pressed to a nearby wall, hesitated a moment then disappeared around the corner, into the shadows. Into the alley.

This had to be it. Sam’s heart raced as he waited for Dean to appear in frame. Eyes locked on the screen, his attention canted between the moving images and the frame counter in the bottom right corner as it ticked off the seconds. Finger hovering on the mouse, ready to freeze-frame when the time was right.

 _C’mon, c’mon c’mon…_ Sam chewed anxiously on one nail. His foot tapped more insistently on the floor.

Then… there!

Sam clicked, the frame froze.

It was Dean. His build, his close-cropped hair, the way he walked. It wasn’t a great image but even so, it had definition enough for Sam to easily recognize that big jacket, Dad's leather jacket, covering most of Dean’s torso. Sam swallowed and he clicked play.

Dean was running so fast he nearly overshot the entrance. After a quick check of his footing, he turned and raced into the shadows, also disappearing. Into the alley.

Sam exhaled. The breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding rushed past his lips. Found himself canting his head towards the hidden alley onscreen, like doing so would offer him a better view at the dark shadow they'd vanished into.

Leon’s information had been accurate, Sam could at least confirm that. Dean had, in fact, been chasing a man who had been dragging a kid.

And all that made the next minutes of video even more crucial, because now all Sam could do was wait. And pray. Pray for a good, clear image of the car. Pray there would _be_ a car, something to take him that next step.

Once again his eyes flicked to the counter below, then to the shadowed alley, then down. Bouncing back and forth between the two. Time ticked off. Nothing. A full 10 minutes passed when finally, a car edged out of the shadows.

Sam sat up. Hovered. Ready to freeze the frame. Waiting for the right image.

The light colored vehicle, an old-model somethingorother, perched on the edge of the street. It waited for a chance to pull out. Its front license plate slowly easing out of the shadows and into the sun.

In the first split second that Sam caught a glimpse of a less blurry image, he punched the freeze frame and leaned in to the screen.

It wasn’t a perfect image, but the front license plate was visible enough.

Sam felt his heart surge in triumph, a moment of celebration at last. He took a breath, sat back down, rubbing his palms over his eyes. "Get a grip, man," he lectured himself. Settle down. Stay focused. Go through the steps. Don't miss anything.

There would be no real celebration until he had Dean back and alive. But this was a good start.

Grabbing a piece of paper and a pen, he scrawled down the sequence, the frame clear enough he could easily discern every number and letter.

Taking a deep breath Sam straightened. He knew his next stop so he placed his hands back on the keyboard and before long the Department of Motor Vehicles site was up.

This site proved a little more difficult to hack, though he had expected that. The good thing was, it wasn’t the first time Sam had done this dance. Hitting wall after wall of rejection didn't deter him and after several minutes, several frustrating, curse-muttering minutes, he finally broke through.

Sam blew a relieved breath, keyed in the plate info and waited.

Seconds later, the car's owner and address information popped up: _William Brimmer, 1801 Redruth Street, Apartment 514-J._

"Gotcha," Sam hissed and shot to his feet. Ready to bolt back to the Impala. Ready and eager to move on and... and....

And just as quickly he sat back down.

Reining himself back in, Sam had to consider the possibility that the car had been stolen or borrowed, and the information may yet prove useless. Or, that there’d been another exit from the alley that he didn’t know about. Or that the person who'd taken Dean had left by some other means.

Still, this was his best lead. This man, or thing, or whatever, had led Dean to this point. Sam needed to see what it was Dean had found over the last three days that had not only confirmed his suspicions enough he’d hit the streets, but had also made things go south on him.

Dean’s research; that was his next logical step.

Sam moved the cursor over to the upper left corner of the screen and clicked. A website history drop-down menu displayed and he highlighted and opened everything dated up to their arrival.

Rifling through the website histories and his hazy memory of their discussions during the long drive to Duluth, Sam was able to link enough pieces to get an idea of what had gone on. Indicators popped out of each article as he clicked through link after link:

>   
> **_October 1991:_** The bodies of two of the three boys reported missing two months ago, were found today. Thought to have been runaways, the bodies of 13-year-old Michael Tolbert and 13-year-old, James Guidry were found in the city sewer tunnels, within close proximity of one another. The third boy, 14-year-old Andrew Thomas, has yet to be found. Police are still hopeful that he is a runaway…

Shuffling through the stack of papers that Dean had scribbled with notations, Sam turned to a dog-eared page first, well-worn edges indicated that his brother had referred to it often over the last few days. It was a list, spanning more than three pages with four handwritten columns. There were names, dates, details and while some names were crossed off, others were circled. Right away Sam found James Guidry's name amongst those circled.

Using the list, Sam quickly connected each website article with a circled name on the list. So many kids... no wonder Dean had been so freaked about the whole damn thing.

>   
> **_December 1992:_** Lydia Turner made an impassioned plea to the media today, asking for the assistance of the public in finding her son, thirteen-year-old David Turner. The boy has been missing for nearly a month now and with no leads or information as to his whereabouts...

On Dean's list, David Turner was also circled. His body had never been found but he fit what Dean had come to consider the 'victim's profile,' the details listed in the last column. Common traits seemed to be boys ages 13-14, under-developed for their age, light hair coloring and all with long histories of trouble with the authorities.

Sam gulped. Other than the age, Dean fit the profile to the letter, something that only tightened the knot in Sam’s gut.

The next two deaths Sam found, also circled on Dean's list, occurred in 1992 as well. This time the bodies of Mark Cooper and Randy Bischoff had been found in two different locations; one in the sewer, the other in the basement of a building that had just been demolished.

It was, however, the contents of the next two newspaper articles that made Sam’s blood run cold:

> _**September 1993:** Authorities recovered the body of thirteen-year-old Tommy Harris five days ago in the Duluth river. The boy’s body shows irrefutable evidence that he suffered physical abuse at the hands of his attacker. Tommy had celebrated his thirteenth birthday just one day before he was taken…_

Article after article went on from there. Sam skimmed through each one, fighting to keep his stomach steady. In a fit of frustration, he skipped to the most recent article:

> _**September 2005:** The child's body, discovered by city workers two weeks ago, was today identified through dental records, as Jake Rhys, reported missing over two weeks ago. The coroner’s report released just today indicates signs of peri-mortem sex. Cause of death was attributed to asphyxiation. According to the same report, there was no evidence of the skinning having occurred before death, most likely a post mortem event that can either be ritualistic in nature or…_

Sam looked down at Dean's list. The names in the articles matched perfectly those Dean had circled on his list. The details, however, still escaped Sam's understanding. Of those missing from 1991 to 1995, Dean’s notes mentioned the bodies being found without their skin and eyes. None of the older articles he'd seen had stated that. How had Dean found that out?

Puzzled, Sam rifled through Dean’s hand-written notes, scanning each one carefully. Where had he gotten these details...?

Going back to the computer’s history, Sam eyed several website names. One after another he passed them over, moving on, more names from the list. Nothing new.

Until one. Sam clicked on the link. The page loaded and...

Sam did a strong double take.

“Seriously?” he muttered to himself in astonishment. Head canted to one side, he leaned in toward the screen just to be sure he was reading right. No mistake, it was definitely an official website and Sam’s head popped back in surprise.

It was the actual, secure access file system from the Duluth Police Department server. The log-in for the Duluth Police Department, wherein he'd find sensitive, locked case crime files. Details that might have been withheld from public knowledge...

How the hell Dean had managed to hack into the police official web files was beyond Sam.

“Huh,” Sam intoned. After a quick nod of acknowledgment of Dean’s resourcefulness, and a vow to ask Dean about this once he’d got him back, Sam opened the first file:

> _September 1991:_
> 
> _Michael Tolbert, age fourteen, blond hair, blue eyes. Body found at 79th and Keller Street in sewer tunnel. Skin and eyes were removed post-mortem. Coroner's report indicates that the victim’s body showed toxic levels of several psychotropic drugs. These findings reaffirm the theory that the children were incapacitated by the time the sexual assaulted occurred, corroborating the lack of signs of struggle. Cause of death was determined to be asphyxiation._

"Eyes," Sam murmured. There it was again. That's how Dean had found it.

There were more. Fifteen to be exact, all sealed case files Dean had managed, somehow, to pull directly from a very secure police case data system.

Each one coincided with an article and with a boy's name circled on Dean's list. All between ages of 13 and 14, same body size, same hair and eye color. Then, the part that drove this home: many found in sewers, choked to death, raped, skinned and eyes taken. Also, the victims had all had a history of problems within their families, the local schools or with police.

Choking down his own rising fear for his brother’s life, Sam took a deep breath and sat back, hand running nervously through his hair. He pushed back at the bile that threatened to spill out.

Kids. The victims, all of them, were nothing more than kids.

Sam swallowed past the lump of emotion in his throat. Knowing Dean’s feelings about kids, though he may try to hide it, this had to have gotten to him. This whole case had to have gotten to him. It was little wonder he’d run off without backup when he’d thought a kid’s life was in danger.

Determined to keep moving, he grabbed Dean's spiral notebook and gazed carefully at the first page of content. Taped above the handwritten column was another article. This one, however, was shorter. It was dated the day after the first one.

The title read: **Serial Killer in Duluth?** Sam's eyes caught only on the small excerpt that Dean had, undoubtedly, highlighted.

> _In a startling release of information, authorities have come forward to reveal that the death of Jake Rhys closely resembles six other unsolved murders that occurred between 1991 and 1994. In those cases, the victims were all young boys between the ages of 13 and 14 and were found in similar condition._
> 
> _Authorities state that at the time, certain details were purposefully withheld in order to protect their ongoing investigation, but since those cases remain a mystery today, they wanted to make the public fully aware, hoping that someone might have seen something and might come forward with some information._

Pen in hand, Sam turned back to the list, pointing out each circled name and started counting the grim list that Dean had composed. As he continued, the pen slowed, and then stopped, finally clattering to the table.

Sam felt a chill rake his spine. The number of circled names was staggering: over the last 14 years, nearly thirty boys had either died or disappeared without a trace. Thirty!

Thirty boys who fit the victim profile nearly flawlessly.

Was it even a creature to begin with? The city had already, according to articles, begun to label this as possibly the work of a serial killer, but then, that was pretty typical of people who led normal lives. Not for the Winchesters though.

Could they have all really died at the hands of this same creature?

No matter what, Dean’s line of thinking wasn’t far off; even if a fraction of them had been taken by something supernatural, they had to find it and stop it. And, if this thing had Dean…

Dean had found a pattern, Sam realized, and a good pattern at that. One that eliminated several of the missing boys based on solid information. Research that had to have taken hours. Days. All of which he'd done while Sam had slept.

"Jesus, Dean..." Sam sat in awe, the facts before him extolling his brother's ability to piece together a solid collection of information.

The next page of Dean’s notes was actually an insert, another piece of paper that had been folded and neatly tucked between the pages. This wasn't newspaper however, and Sam unfolded what appeared to be a map of inner city Duluth.

At the top of the map the title read: School District Zones. Then, on the map itself were a series of printed lines, noting each school, from elementary to high school, then another series of lines indicating what school kids, within a certain area, would attend.

It was, however, the series of x's that Sam found intriguing. According to Dean's notes, all the victims had attended Hyde Park Middle School or Pratt Middle School and right smack dab in the middle of the two was a clinic. Dean had highlighted it along with the schools and then written this:

> _Check out St. Mary's clinic. Most victims were patients there at some time, or other family members were._

The clinic in Culver hadn't been St. Mary's. Sam had seen the scripts, the labels had read Urgent Care on them. One of those little doc-in-a-box places and the address in Culver was nowhere near downtown.

The pages of collected information came to an end and the last page held Dean's own Winchester's 'who done it' guide. A single page full of scratched notes, concluding the types of creatures that might match this kind of carnage:

>   
>  _**...Skinwalkers/Shapeshifters** \- Pastor Jim called back. In general, some shapeshifters feed on flesh, draw power to shift from consuming the skin of victims to take new form/shape. Like dark, damp places to live and feed. Psychotic, unmerciful killers. Can be killed with silver._
> 
> _**…Aswangs** \- Dad's journal; he killed one in Lexington the winter of 1990. Dad noted it had similar taste for human flesh but most times took animal forms. Not sure about human form, but died using silver rounds._
> 
> _**…Ogres** \- Jacob said they can feed on human flesh but prefer skin of young boys most times, to that of adults or girls. Feed only 3 times a year but could live in sewer tunnels for long time between. City is good fertile feeding ground._

That was the end of it. Short list of likely, supernatural suspects.

Sam sat back and mulled over the data. His nervous fingers played idly with the stack of papers he’d already turned over, constantly lifting and fanning the corner. Then he felt the tactile difference of one and stopped.

One by one, he lifted the corners. Most were blank, except for one: a piece of tracing paper, with lines drawn on it. Dean hadn’t labeled it, but as soon as Sam’s eyes landed on the thing, he knew what it was.

Sam lifted the sheet that had apparently stuck to the one beneath it, and gazed at the series of criss-crossed lines, moving jaggedly around the paper.

Sudden realization took hold and he grabbed the city map, unfolding it with a jerking motion before settling the tracing paper over it. There it was. Lines connected red dots beneath and Sam felt his brow rise once again. A pattern. The killer’s pattern.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Sam muttered into the silence of the library. “You found it, Dean.”

The pattern spiraled outward, away from the city and ended at the area of Crescent and Maple. Right where Dean had told him he was sure the next attack would happen.

The police, because they had written the majority of the disappearances off as runaways, hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t even been looking for it. But, because of their line of work, Dean had.

Enamored as he was by Dean’s tracking and hunting ability, let alone some computer skill he’d yet to share with his brother, it was time, now, to put it all together. Figure out his next step.

Sam clasped his fingers together, propped his elbows on the table and placed his chin on his hands. His mind moved quickly over the information he’d just read, processing it, regretting the four days he’d lost laying in bed, sick.

Not that he could’ve done anything about that, but still. He could've done something about the disbelief he'd pressed on his brother.

Sam’s eyes snapped down to the name scrawled on paper. The one he'd set aside on purpose. Brimmer's address.

Glancing back to the keyboard, he opened up a new browser and keyed in the address. Within seconds he had directions. That done, he set about gathering up his things but not before a quick glance at his watch...

"Dammit!" And he was moving faster; it was nearly 9 p.m., officially ten hours since he'd lost contact with Dean.

Sam picked up and studied the directions, mouth drawn into a straight line, lips pursed. Next stop, the apartment of William Brimmer, where Sam hoped to find some clue as to where exactly Dean was.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**The** house was dark, save for the light spilling in from outside. The large halogen bulb over the barn entrance illuminated the farm yard and leached enough light in through the kitchen window to vanquish the utter darkness inside.

Bathed in the glow of the exterior light, Billy stood at the kitchen counter, a glass of water in his grimy, blood-covered hand. He gazed out to the open entrance of the barn. Inside the dilapidated wooden structure, washed in the dim light of the single bulb, his exhausted prisoner sagged, bloody and unconscious from pain and blood loss.

The prisoner wouldn't last long, at this rate; exposure alone would likely kill him. Hell, shock and all that he'd suffered so far, should've made him less coherent than he was. The man had stamina - Billy had to give him that.

This was maybe Billy's second time out of the barn ever since he’d strapped the other man to that post. Well, third if he counted the trip to the basement when he'd dragged a screaming, protesting Jeremy down and locked him up. But Billy didn't count that trip, because the boy was the last thing on his mind right now.

Right now, his thoughts were solely on his prisoner. Dean — if that was his name — the man with the intense green eyes, eyes that darkened with pain. The man who hurt so beautifully, whose skin glistened and shone with blood and sweat. Beautifully.

Billy shook his head. Confused, his thoughts turned. Churned in his cluttered mind. He remembered the second time he’d come to the house. The second time Dean had passed out under his... persuasion. He had needed to think. Distance himself. Get things in order.

There had never been a time in Billy's life that he'd thought of someone in terms of 'want.' There had just been need. Anger. Resentment, and finally, guilt. The last leading to death and absolution. Then, acceptance.

For the first time ever, though, his captive, Dean, had made him think of other things. Made him feel something.

Before today, Billy had never felt possessive; had never known a sense of protectiveness. Or companionship; Dean made him think of those things. Of keeping something for himself, though Billy wasn't fool enough to think his prisoner would reciprocate or even cooperate. Far from it. Dean was big, proud and strong. What men considered a 'man's man.' Given a chance, he'd fight Billy and not think twice about killing him if it came to it.

No, he'd never willingly accept any life that Billy, or anyone else for that matter, might try to force on him. Not that Dean's willingness was the issue...

Still, knowing this, it made more sense to just kill the man. Get it over with. The longer Dean remained alive and above ground, the more danger there was of discovery.

Billy was convinced now that his prisoner had no one in his life. What he didn't understand was why this man had come after him. He wasn't a fed. Wasn't a cop. That bullshit story he'd tried to peddle about private investment and rumor-spreading was so full of crap that he could smell it from a distance. It didn't make sense. At all.

There had to be someone, though. A man with this much reason to live, had to have a reason to fight. Moreover, a reason to keep quiet. Keep his secrets. And this man was better at it than anyone Billy had ever known.

In proud, stoic silence, he'd endured everything Billy had thrown at him and Billy hadn't been lying when he'd said he admired him. Dean was strong, like Billy's momma, but compassionate and protective, like... well, no one Billy had ever met before.

The first time Dean had passed out, Billy had stayed in the barn, at first to clean up, but he’d soon found his gaze constantly edging back to his bound prisoner. Next thing he knew he found himself lingering toward him. Eyes roving over his bare torso.

It was an effort to push down the hunger he'd been desperately trying to deny. The first time he'd felt it stir was when he'd had to sedate his captive in the car. The feeling had slammed into him like a tsunami. Surprised him.

It had been all he could do to force himself back inside. Momma had wanted to know what was going on.

Convincing her that he'd needed more time with him hadn't been hard the first time. But Billy knew her. She wouldn't be patient for long. Dean had been on the farm since... he glanced at the clock on the wall; it ticked into the silence… since noon that day.

It was now after nine pm. Eight hours. Should have been more than enough time to have found out all that he needed to know.

It hadn't.

The second time Dean had passed out, Billy had openly lingered. Openly stared. He'd even been bold enough to touch, though it had started with a clinical removal of the tape that bound his eyes open. And he'd had no idea what had made him do that...

Taking advantage of the absence of a disapproving stare and those accusing eyes, he’d touched the prisoner, feeling the warmth of flesh, the strength of muscle, the silence of fortitude. His hands hadn't gone far. Just the exposed flesh, the warm blood, the sinewy textures of his torso and arms.

Time had stilled in that moment. When he'd finally been able to pull himself away, he'd no idea how long he'd dawdled—Momma liked that word. Momma would not like that he'd dawdled for so long.

Now he waited for her. Thoughts wayward and turning over. Considering options he'd never once considered.

This... Dean person. As much as he was Billy's prisoner, Billy felt equally his captive too. Trapped by this stranger's attributes; they had drawn him in as no one ever had.

The face of an angel when he passed out, he left Bill breathless. Like the boys he'd always been attracted to. Like Frankie had been.

But this was a full grown man. A strong man. A dangerous man. Nothing at all like the boys he usually tracked, brought here, and inevitably killed. This one would never be tamed. Never bend to his will. Not that any of the boys had, but there was always that illusion with them.

It would never be that way with Dean.

Still. Drugs could be powerful in his need for control. Used right, he could come very close to possibly owning this man. Possessing him, even if it were a facade. The very idea sent a thrill of strength through Bill's body. Felt it exhilarate his soul.

What if... maybe he could—

“What are you doing with that man?”

Startled, Billy Brimmer nearly dropped the glass in his hand. “Dammit, Momma,” he hissed and tried to gather his wits.

It shouldn’t have surprised him. Margret Brimmer never failed to catch him at his most vulnerable, no matter how used to this existence he thought he was. It probably didn’t help that the kitchen was dark, but Bill liked it dark. Would keep the whole house dark if it weren’t for his mother’s insistence to the contrary.

“I’m not doing anything with him,” Billy grated out.

“Exactly!” Margret screeched. Billy flinched visibly at the sound of her voice. “His body should be a rottin’, skinless corpse by now.”

Glass gripped tightly, Billy set it on the counter next to the sink. “I told you already, I have to make sure no one’s going to come ‘round looking for him.” He leaned into the counter, his back to her, hands in tight fists, white knuckled, tense. “He said he was a private dick. He might have a partner somewhere. Someone paying for his work and keeping an eye on his movements. I need to be sure.”

“You’re useless,” she spat out venomously, refusing to give in to any kind of logic. “Sloppy and good for nothin’, never have been, never will be.” Margret stepped in close and Billy felt himself grow cold all over. “You get this done, just like that last lawman. Don’t make me step in and clean up your mess. Again.”

“You did not have to clean up my mess!" Billy shouted. "I did that all on my own. Only mess is the mess you made, _Mother_.” The last word dripped with all the disdain he felt for her. Mother was not something he called her often because what kind of mother would…

“Don’t you dare take that tone of voice with me.” Her chin was raised and she didn’t flinch from his hooded glare. “You’d have been arrested long ago if it hadn’t been for me.”

Billy closed his eyes. It was true. He should’ve burned those first bodies, not have panicked like he did and stuck them in the sewers. They had been found— more correctly, _he’d_ found them. That bloodhound, off-duty, out of state cop. Chisolm.

He’d found and followed his own trail. Right to Bill Brimmer. All because one of the boys he’d killed had been living with the cop. How was he supposed to know that the kid was in Duluth just for a field trip? How was he supposed to know that someone had cared for that boy?

Momma said he was sloppy. She’d been right that one time. But he’d fixed it.

Lucky for Billy, vendettas were a one-way street; all of the evidence that pig cop had found he’d kept to himself, not wanting to deal with the local police anymore than Bill had wanted to. It made it easier to go to his hotel and make damn sure all the evidence that he’d collected never saw the light of day. Just like that cop.

Bill had learned a lot from that almost-mishap.

It had been Margret’s idea to start bringing the boys to the farm. Easier to hide the evidence there, even if Billy still kept souvenirs at the apartment where he lived. Closer to him. Away from Momma.

There wasn’t much there, really. Just some photos, some eyes; one boy had the prettiest lips. He’d kept those too.

Just like the man, Dean, in the barn. Prettiest lips.

“This one doesn’t beg.” Billy looked out the kitchen window, across the yard toward the barn. “He’s… different.”

“What are you saying?”

A surge of anger clashed with a desire he’d never felt. Something else, too; a sudden need—it rose to the surface, lifted on a tide, flooded by loneliness and want.

“That maybe I’m tired of it always being you. Maybe this time I'll take something for me.” A feral grin spread across his face and he licked his lips. “Something—or one,” he looked at her, “I control for a while.”

Staring at Bill, Margret’s eyes narrowed, then she moved. It was fast and uncoordinated at the same time. And silent. Leaning in she canted her head toward the window before shifting her gaze to follow his. She knew. “You can’t. I forbid it.”

“Why not? I—I could keep him drugged. He’d learn and do what I said. He’d obey me because he’d be too weak to do more. The drugs will see to that.”

“NO!”

“Besides,” he ignored her and continued, eyes alight with more strength than he’d ever felt before. “I believe him. He doesn’t know that kid and he doesn’t know any of the ones I’ve killed.” He looked at Margret. “Maybe he really just followed me because…” Even he couldn’t say the words.

Margret stared at him then… threw her head back and laughed, the sound condescending, cold. “Because what? He likes you?”

While her vicious laughter echoed into the dark room, Billy gripped the sides of the counter tight, head down, eyes blazing, an equal mixture of anger and embarrassment. He’d never been good enough for her, even when he was younger and that first time she’d sneaked into his room. That first time she’d crawled into his bed…

Rage and frustration boiled to the surface and Billy shouted. Explosively, he launched the glass across the room where it crashed against the far wall. In the eerie aftermath, water and remnants of glass ran down the plaster like blood and flesh.

“Now, you listen to me, William Tate Brimmer.” Her face was suddenly in his, her breath as cold as her voice, her voice less angry, more eager and… tender. “You’re my baby. You hear me? You’re Momma’s boy. We don’t need no grown man in our lives, messin’ things up.”

Just the sound of her calling him by his full name, the name she'd always shouted when she'd been angry. The name she'd whispered in his ear when she'd come to him at night. The full name that never failed to send him cowering whenever it left her mouth.

“I know, Momma.” William’s voice dropped, as did his gaze. Head down and contrite he continued pleadingly, “I know but… but I just get so lonely sometimes. Want somethin’ for myself for a bit.”

Margret dipped her head to catch his gaze. “Oh, my sweet William,” she cooed but when he looked up from his averted gaze, he saw the truth. There was no maternal love in her gaze. The sudden softness of her voice left him trembling inside. “No one in this world is good enough for you. You’re special. And you’re mine and you’ll do what your momma says, right?”

William nodded, face sullen, resigned.

“Good boy,” she cajoled. Margret lifted her head in false pride. “Now, you go out to that barn and you kill him. You do to him like you did to all the others. You get it done. You hear me?”

Something reacted in William’s dark heart, something deep inside him crumbled. Always had when she was around. “But… he looks so sweet when he sleeps. Like a child—”

“But he’s not. He’s a grown man, sugar. Too hard to control. Too dangerous and that just ain’t for us.” Margret stared anxious, angry holes into him as he met her gaze. “He’ll ruin everything.” Lifting a finger she ran it lightly down his jaw. “Now, you get out there and you finish this. Make your momma proud.”

William swallowed. Eyes closed he wanted so badly to lean into the touch but another part of him resisted. He’d always wanted her approval. Her warmth.

Nodding, he opened his eyes. “Alright Momma. Alright.”

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)


	8. Chapter 8

  
   [ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**It** took far too long to get from the campus library to Brimmer’s apartment building, even if they were on opposite ends of town.

It was just traffic and the goddamn one way streets that he had to maneuver to get where he needed. Sam had very nearly ditched the Impala and hoofed it. Only reasoning that he'd likely need the car and that it would likely get towed if he abandoned it, kept him in his seat.

Still, Sam seethed at the constant delays. It was a struggle to keep his temper and frustration in check.

The old building had an intercom entrance leaving Sam one of two options: press random buttons and hope for a tenant who’d open the door to a total stranger, or wait for someone coming or going out to be distracted enough to leave the door open for him.

Either way, he needed a cover, in case someone questioned him. After a quick glance around, Sam looked at the over-filled dumpster at the end of the street and quickly came up with an idea.

Holding an empty pizza box, Sam stood off to one side, pretending to talk on his cell, waiting for his chance.

When the door finally opened from the inside, Sam launched up the steps.

“Hey!" he shouted. "Hold that up for me!” Before it could latch closed, he grabbed for the knob. The exiting occupant tossed him a suspicious look and Sam shrugged. “If I miss one more delivery deadline, I’ll lose my job.”

Just like that, Sam was in the building and at the elevator, pressing the call button. Foot tapping he waited. Mind racing. Then he pressed the button again. Judging by the delay, he was sure it was coming from the bowels of Hell itself.

“Dammit,” Sam muttered and pushed on the call button… five more times.

The apartment was on the seventh floor and just like all old buildings, the ancient elevator was slow. Too slow and Sam couldn’t help but glance again at his watch, his gaze drawn toward the door to the stairwell.

Sam opened his eyes, realizing for the first time he’d closed them. Something rolled down his brow and he swiped at it, his hand coming back wet with sweat. Rubbery legs warbled and his stomach rolled and Sam took a moment, leaning back against the nearest wall.

A nagging thought surfaced. The constant running around so soon after being laid up for the last four days was driving him toward relapse. Drawing on every ounce of patience he did not feel, he exhaled and dropped his shoulders, resigning himself to wait for the elevator and the physical respite it would offer. It would do Dean no good if he keeled over in the middle of trying to find him.

When the doors to the stairwell opened and a middle-aged woman shuffled out tiredly, Sam met her gaze.

She sniffed disdainfully. “Damn thing’s broke half the time. If you’re expectin’ a tip for a delivered hot pizza, you’d best take the stairs." She thumbed over her shoulder to the door she'd just exited.

“Thanks.” Sam actually felt a sense of relief. Tired as he was he didn’t want to stand still. Not for any length of time. He needed to find Dean. Now.

Taking the steps two, sometimes three at a time, he reached the seventh floor of the building and quickly located Brimmer’s door.

“Johnny Mack’s Pizza.” Sam knocked on the door. No answer. He offered the side of his fist and pounded this time, calling a bit louder this time, “Johnny Mack’s! Pizza delivery.” The same silence greeted him and he glanced quickly around before reaching into his inside pocket for the lock-picking tool he knew would be there.

“What you got there?”

Startled, it was all Sam could do to maintain his hold on the lock pick and the empty pizza box. Concealing the pick in his sleeve, Sam turned slowly, pretending the box weighed more than it did.

“Just making a delivery.” Sam nodded to the door, his best baffled look in place. “No one seems to be answering.”

The elderly woman stood in the doorway of the apartment adjacent, staring back at him through grimy bifocal glasses. Ratty gray hair slipped and curled all over her head and a large floral house coat, buttoned, thankfully, encased her ample frame.

“No one's home, kid," her gravelly voice grated back. "You got the wrong apartment.”

“Shit,” Sam huffed with dramatic indignation. Yanking his cell from his pocket, he punched randomly at some buttons and slammed the phone to his ear. With a nod to the neighbor, he stalked angrily toward the stairwell’s fire door.

As the door closed behind him, Sam was already talking loudly to his imaginary pizza place. “Hey!” he said to no one at all. “That delivery for Peterson, man you got the wrong address…”

Giving the illusion that he'd left, Sam allowed his voice to taper, his steps to lighten, instead pressing himself to the wall, hoping the neighbor bought it.

When enough time had passed he cracked the door and peered through a small opening. The neighbor was gone, thank God.

On the balls of his feet, Sam padded quietly out of the stairwell, careful to let the door close slowly behind him. After a beat, he moved toward the target once again, this time leaving the pizza box behind.

Lock pick in hand, he made quick work of the door to Brimmer's place and moved inside the apartment in no time at all.

Late evening light streamed through the curtain covered windows, but even in the faded rays, Sam could see enough to get the lay of the place. It was fairly neat and beyond clean and organized. The furniture was dated, but well kept, and the room was sparsely decorated with only a calendar and a few plastic plants. It was small too, he guessed it couldn't be more than 400 square feet.

Standing in the combination kitchenette and living area, the linoleum floor squeaked under his feet as he turned in a circle, looking for anything out of place or that might catch his eye. It did, in the form of a crooked bookshelf at the back of the room. Completely out of place given how fastidious the rest of the apartment was.

Curious, Sam drew closer, moving from the squeaky floor to thinned out carpeted area. Within a few feet he knew why the thing seemed ready to fall forward; a row of boxes, each consistent in size, took up two shelves. Each box had a title card, but he couldn't quite make out the print.

They were...photo boxes. Each box was labeled with a year, the first one starting with 1991, and up to the present, 2005.

In no particular order, Sam pulled a box from the shelf, noted the date 1995 in neat handwriting on the front and lifted the lid. Pictures, and while it was too dark to make out details, the bulge beneath the pile indicated there might be something more, so Sam shook the box lightly. The pictures shifted revealing a small spiral notebook.

Wanting a better look, Sam moved to the dining room area and set the box down on top of a counter that served as a divider between the two spaces. Dropping the lid down, he pulled out his flashlight, thumbed the switch and stared down at the contents.

A single look and Sam felt his stomach twist. Forcing wooden fingers to cooperate, he picked up the picture for a closer look. "Jesus," he whispered, then picked up the next, and another after that...

The photos were of all of the same man. Tied to a pole, bloody and torn nearly to pieces. Each one was of a different angle but the images were all the same, a strangers misery and pain captured for something's sick memory. In a few it appeared the man had been alive, mouth down-turned and open. Crying.

Sam picked up one of the closeups and by far the bloodiest; barbed wire, it was clearly tearing into the man’s throat. Sam dropped the photos to the table, like they'd burned him.

"Son of a...." Sam whispered. The pictures... the monster had taken them as souvenirs. Memories, like some kind of demented scrapbook of his victims pain and suffering.

Taking a deep breath, Sam shoved the pictures around, enough to see that each contained a different pose, same subject, each was more gory than that one before. On the back of each, written in the same neat handwriting that had been on the box labels, was a name and date; **Brian, Summer, 1995.**

In favor of keeping his already unsettled stomach somewhat settled, Sam dropped the macabre photos and grabbed the notebook instead.

The worn cover and edges of the pages were littered with dark splatters and spots. Blood, no doubt. He gingerly thumbed open the cover and noticed a name written on the left: Brian Chisolm. On the first page were columns of dates, places, and names.

Sam ran a finger over the data, mouth moving silently as he read. The handwriting was sloppy, hard to read. More chicken scratches than anything else, personal notations meant to be understood only by the person writing them. It bore no similarity at all to the carefully delineated letters and words on the backs of the photos.

The names in the notebook matched what Sam had seen on Dean's research. The dates, and even the sewer locations too....

"Dammit." Sam forced himself to scan the remaining pages, hoping there was something there that would fill in the blanks. Namely, where Dean was, because it was blatantly clear he wasn't being held here.

Finding nothing, he dropped the notebook back into the box and rushed back to the bookshelf. Grabbing the next box he returned to the table with the intent of rifling through the contents only to stutter to a stop. No adults this time. The photos were of kids. Lots of them. And they'd all been...

Sam sucked in a breath; skinned. Each one. "My God..." he struggled not to throw up. To get oxygen in and calm the nausea in his stomach.

Looking back at the rest of the boxes, he didn't have to see inside to know what they contained. He was pretty sure of what he'd find . Still, if there was any chance that the photos, or backgrounds in them would offer any clues as to where Brimmer might be. Where Dean might be, Sam had to force himself to look, make himself search each and every one for any details they might present.

And he did. And as bad as all this was, it assured him of one thing: Brimmer and the thing that had taken his brother were the same.

During his inspection of the photos of the kids, Sam had noticed a name and date written on the back of each. He grabbed the notebook and saw that while the information matched, perfectly, something else didn't. The handwriting.

Sam squinted, looking closer. The writing on the photos, even on the boxes, it was precise, neat, clean. Every letter, ever number straight and perfect. The notebook had been far less so. Jagged, more slanted, with far less care.

The notebook, Sam realized, definitely didn't belong to Brimmer. But who... Sam looked at the photos of the man. A hunter? Maybe the man in the pictures, the only adult Sam had found. Had he stumbled onto the same info Dean had? Had this Brian Chisolm met his end at the hand of this monster? The same monster that now had Dean? And was doing... Sam looked at the top picture of the man, _that_ to Dean?

Sam swallowed. Hands practically shaking, he tumbled headlong into the pictures, eyeing each one under close inspection, studying each for background, looking for anything that might give him another clue.

By the time he’d finished, Sam felt sick to his stomach and tragically empty handed. The pictures were all extreme close ups, too close, invasive, real-time close-ups of this guy’s victims. There wasn’t enough room left in them to catch a surrounding building, a glimpse of wherever it was that he was committing these crimes. Because one thing was certain, it wasn’t in the pathetically small apartment with its too nosy neighbors.

Not only that, but shadows had given way to nightfall, chasing off the sparse natural light from earlier. Glancing at his watch he noted the time: 9:30 p.m. He cursed.

Regrouping, Sam shone his flashlight carefully around the room. Starting over. Getting a real lay of the land.

A living room, kitchen with eat-in space, and a small bedroom, the latter off to his right. It was quite evident that not only was no one around but no one had been around in a number of days— the pile of mail on the small entry table was evidence of that. And that someone was taking his mail in for him.

Tucking the light under his chin, Sam freed both hands to move through the envelopes and mailers faster. Speed increased as it became evident there was nothing there to tell him anything.

Sam cursed under his breath and turned to look around the room once more.

The cheap linoleum floor of the kitchen crackled underfoot as he moved into the small space. Trailing the beam of light slowly, noting the counters, the range, then the refrigerator—the light caught on something shiny and Sam stilled.

Moving purposefully toward the gleam, it soon took shape. There, stuck to the side of the fridge was a small, slanted wire basket. In it was a neat stack of envelopes, every one of them torn open carefully at the top.

Sam grabbed the stack and right away found just want he wanted. The return address read: St. Mary's Clinic, 32669 Broadham St., Duluth, MN.

Reaching inside Sam pulled a folded piece of paper out and shone his light on the content. It was a pay-stub. Bill was employed at the clinic and this was a recent pay-stub, dated only two weeks ago.

The clinic. That, Sam decided, was his next stop.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**In** their line of business, the brothers were always in tune with their surroundings, even when half conscious. Time and hunting left their senses always on alert, always aware when the silence cut a bit too deep, or seemed too perfect.

It wasn’t something John had trained; some things couldn’t be taught. This was experience. The constant war with darkness left them keen to the smallest noise, the too-still stillness or sound that seemed unintended. Overly cautious.

Even in his beaten, cut up, drug-hazed stupor, Dean knew this was one of those times; someone, or some _thing_ , was watching him. More than watching.

Dean's hands stilled.

The distinct tell-tale sounds of a camera flash firing, filtered into his mind. One after another, they clicked, one after another. Snapping picture after picture.

Of him.

“Wh... the fuck?”

It somehow felt more invasive than all the torture, more grating than all the breaches in personal space that he’d suffered. A picture was something solid, something permanent. A proof of Dean’s impotent state.

The camera sounds stopped, and Dean waited for the photographer to come closer. He knew perfectly well who he was.

Dean’s fingers slid from the hidden nail. After the other man had left, Dean had focused on trying to get that nail loose, trying to assure himself of a way out of there. His body, however, had other priorities and Dean couldn’t really pinpoint the moment when he’d lost contact with his escape plan and slipped away into dream land.

There had been no grace of movement in his fingers, though, and the slow, painful movement of getting the nail out had been difficult. In truth he could barely move his fingers at all. They hurt like hell. Moving them just got the little fire ants of returned circulation moving again.

“Thought you were out,” Perv’s voice filtered through the shadows. “Seemed like the perfect time to get some... souvenirs.”

Head wobbling on its axis, Dean lifted it slowly to stare bleary-eyed at his captor. Was this guy serious? “Souvenirs? Why? You letting me go?”

Dean squinted. The single bulb light above left little halos in his vision, but it was Perv. Head bent, staring at him from across the barn. Palms together, fingers tapping contemplatively against one another. He rocked back and forth, heel to toe, camera armed with a scary big lens dangling from his fingers.

He almost looked…nervous. But that dark stare, it spoke volumes. No, he wasn’t getting ready to let Dean go. Not breathing, at least.

Dean swallowed. He knew an ominous gaze when he saw one. This was it then.

Well, it had been an… interesting life. Not that he’d go out without a fight, but any hope he had that Sam would make it in time was beyond faded.

While his mind seemed to accept the inevitable, his instincts saw something different in Perv's stance. It wasn't at all comfortable or confident, not as it had been all the other times.

This time he seemed... hesitant. Indecisive.

“What?” Dean tried, his voice gravelly and sick sounding. His throat burned like fire, but he figured that was from all the yelling. “You pick now to go all coy and shy on me?”

The movement was sudden, swift. Perv closed the distance between them and dropped to his knees on the ground. Face intense and determined, not far from Dean’s.

“You know,” Perv said, his voice slightly awe-struck. “When you sleep, you... you look like a little boy.” One hand came up and he lightly stroked one cold finger along Dean’s stubbled jaw. “All... innocent and vulnerable. Nearly angelic.”

“Angelic—me?” Dean coughed out a laugh. It felt rusty and painful. This had to be the strangest conversation starter he'd ever heard. “Dude, you don’t know me very well.”

“Don’t be so sure, Dean.” Perv reached out, then hesitated. After a moment, he extended one finger and skimmed the flesh just under Dean’s chin and then down, along his throat, lightly outlining every contour. “From what I’ve seen over the last several hours, I know enough.”

Dean grimaced, but didn't otherwise move. The intimacy of that touch made his skin crawl.

Every fiber in his being wanted him to turn away from the touch. Wanted to shrink from the very proximity and intensity of the look in his captor's eyes. But Dean didn't; he endured it. Held still. Met his gaze head on.

Dean had never physically retreated from anything or anyone. But, while angry-Perv burned, cut and electrocuted him, _pervy_ -Perv freaked him out completely.

Dean was out of his depth here. But he had to change tactics or the next depth he reached would be from his own grave.

“Yeah? Well, ain’t I a little too old for your liking?”

“True, you’re not exactly to my normal tastes,” Perv continued moving his hand now to trace Dean’s collarbone, easily sliding across the sweat gathered there. His eyes studied Dean intently, waiting for a reaction. Wanting one. “But the boys I’ve picked, in death they have that same look; like sleeping angels. But they lack that inner strength, that fortitude.”

“Seriously?” Dean snapped, frustration and rage mixing in his voice. “They were just kids, man!”

Perv didn’t register the barb; just shrugged, his finger running down Dean’s sternum. “Wasn’t my fault they were beautiful. Like Frankie. Like you.” His eyes met Dean’s.

“God, you are nuts,” Dean murmured in disbelief. “How the hell does this have anything to do with me?”

“Simple. With you, I see more. More than just beauty. I see a child in a man’s body with eyes that burn with an intensity the likes of which I've never seen....”

“Well,” Dean continued, the purr in his voice not matching the venom in his eyes. “Why don’t you just let me go? I’ll show you burning.”

Perv went completely still. Face completely shuttered. Any semblance of emotion vanished and Dean swallowed at the confusion of the sudden shift.

It was, however, nothing compared to the frigid set of Perv’s shoulders as he rolled back onto his feet and stood. Under hooded eyes, Dean watched him turn his head and gaze out the barn door. Like some distant voice called to him.

Spinning on his heel Perv moved away from his captive, stalked away, hands balled in fists; angry and tense.

Dean used this moment. This could literally be his last chance. Clawing, he scraped the post, searching for the nail. It caught under his fingertips, fingers just this side of being completely numb and too swollen, but there was enough there. Enough feeling. With the head pinched tight as he could, he pulled.

It moved. Showed no resistance at all.

Dean swallowed the triumphant swell in his chest, the slight dip in his head and closed eyes his only outward show of his relief. He closed his fingers around the loose nail, tightly gripping his only hope.

Once again Dean’s jaw was grabbed viciously, his eyes flew open.

Like so many times before, Perv was in his face. Gripping it tightly in one hand. The content in his other hand was the only difference.

It was a large kitchen knife and the tip, cold and sharp, pressed frighteningly along Dean’s collarbone. The blade quickly skirted down, ghosting over the center of Dean’s chest. Dean braced for the moment it would pierce his heart.

"Hmm… I bet you were quite the handful when you were young." The knife's tip stopped just at the top of Dean's waistband, so did Perv's eyes. "And I bet, you're even _more_ of a handful now."

“Untie me,” Dean snapped angrily, hiding his nerves at the location of the blade. “I’ll show you just how much of a handful I am.”

Perv grinned. “Maybe later,” he said licking his lips, choosing to misinterpret Dean’s threat for an offer. The knife’s edge tingled as it reversed its path and came to a stop at the edge of Dean’s chin. “Your lips…,” he said as he ran the tip of the blade slowly along Dean’s lower lip. “Of all the boys I've taken, none have ever had lips like yours. I’ve not seen anything like them before… well, except in movies and magazines.”

Dean’s insides churned with barely contained bile, his hands closing into fists, the bite of the nail in his palm reminding him that this would all soon be over. He needed to play his cards carefully now.

Time was what he needed. Time both conscious and alone, away from Perv’s watchful eye. Time now to stave off the bastard’s sick need to inflict pain, or he’d be under again. Lost.

“You know, I killed that cop right here in this very barn. Gutted him.” Perv’s face grew thoughtful. “Never realized there was so much blood in the adult human body.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s lips were cracked and dried and he desperately wanted to lick them, but he didn’t dare with Perv’s finger caressing them so sensually. “Kids make for easier cleanup, I guess.”

Perv laughed mirthlessly. “That they do.”

“You know, you can’t keep getting away with this forever. You killed a cop.”

“Don’t make the mistake of underestimating me... that’s what got him killed. I can still remember his screams,” Perv’s face took on a distant look, “when my knife dug into his flesh and, oh, oh how he begged and pleaded for his miserable, stinkin’ life.”

"What'd you do with his body?" Dean asked, trying to get some information, hoping to slow down this night's eminent conclusion.

"Oh, he's" Perv looked around casually, "around. Somewhere. In pieces... lots and lots of little pieces," he finished.

"Goddamn... " Dean murmured, shaking his head.

"He begged me to stop." Anger and warning quickly replaced the casual tone and Perv flashed Dean a warning glare. “I _hate_ when they beg and cry," he continued. "Just like all the boys do just before I wrap my hands around their throats. Listening to the last sounds they make. The gurgling of their voices. They cry. I hate. Crying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dean said simply but his jaw ached to say more. It physically pained him not to tell this crazy fucker just how off his meds he truly was.

What the hell did this perverted freak expect? Of course the kids cried and begged. Kids, for Christ’s sake, just little kids who hadn’t deserved anything like this. Grown men would do exactly the same when faced with a murderous psychopath.

“I was nine when Momma first came into my room one late night, when she… touched me. I didn’t understand. Felt shame, fear, disgust. But no matter what, I didn't cry. Even when I asked her to stop, I never cried. Even when I asked my Daddy to stop her and he did nothing, I didn't cry.”

Dean felt his gut twist at the implication.

“I blame him as much as I blame her. Daddy was less than useless." The words were spoken without any emotion, dismissive. "Pathetic excuse for a man, all he did was sit there, drinking his Southern Comfort, begging me to go away, to not come to him.”

"Shit." Dean appreciated John more and more when he met people whose parents so blatantly let their children down. It was in those moments that he actually felt fortunate for all their missteps.

"I gave up after a while, but many times I caught him hiding, drowning in his tears. But I didn't cry. No matter how many times Momma… ‘cause I learned something." His eyes locked on Dean and he leaned next to his ear. “I learned that I liked boys, still do. She taught me that.”

“Lemme get this straight.” Dean canted his head away from Perv and stared at him. “You like men—well, technically boys but since you’re not exactly splitting hairs, why should I?—” Dean watched Perv, carefully but given the level of fucked-up this guy was, he was way beyond caring what might happen to him. “And yet... you kill them? Buddy, you got a sick way of showing your affection.”

This guy's level of fucked-up far exceeded Dean's expectations. No wonder he was a complete psychopath and Dean was now more determined than ever; no way this guy would learn of Sam. Not a snowball's chance in Hell.

Perv hooked a hand around the back of Dean’s head and pulled him toward him. “Oh, I know how to show affection, but I prefer control. That’s what Momma really taught me. In my youth, there was this one kid, Marty Perkins. He was three years older than me, a sixth grader, and yet he was still nice to me.” Perv’s finger was now outlining Dean’s ear.

“Eh, you keep doing this and you'll have to buy me dinner," Dean offered a tremulous grin, but otherwise held still, enduring the touch. Perv seemed undaunted by the comment. Dean cleared his throat. "So, you and this Marty kid…” he shivered. “You and him…?”

"No," Perv dismissed, "he was just my first crush. I drew pictures of him and me, what we’d do. I hid them in my room. Then she found them. After that, she came to my room every night. I never cried."

Dean blinked several times. Confused. Maybe it was the drugs. "Then who was Frankie?"

" _He_ was my first. I was a fifth grader at the time. He was friends with Marty."

"Naturally."

"Momma was so angry when she found out about him."

“Guess the old lady wasn’t so much into love and peace all over, hum? Did she go all dark ages on your ass? Was that it?”

“No! You’re not getting it!” Perv ground out. The hand on Dean’s skull tightened until Dean felt it would burst. “She taught me how a man should be loved, Dean. I could show you.” The voice and the grip on his neck softened.

"Think I'd rather wait for the book," Dean ground out.

“I could Show you how much Mommy loved me," he continued. A hand was suddenly there, on Dean’s chest and Dean didn’t have to look down to know… it blazed a trail down his sweaty, blood covered flesh. “Did your mommy love you? Everyone should be loved, Dean.”

The hand suddenly wandered south of his waistband and Dean breathed out harshly. He was trapped in this psycho's embrace. Head swimming in panic.

“That was not a mother’s love, you sick fuck," Dean said in a rush of fast breaths, anger and fear. "I had a mom, too, and that’s not how a mother’s supposed to love her kids. Her idea of love wasn't love. It was sick."

“Think what you like, but it doesn’t matter.” Fingers skirted the top of Dean’s denim jeans. “See, this is a first for me, Dean. Never wanted a man before. But you're different. Strong. Brave, and when you sleep—"

"Pass out, you mean,” Dean spat back, breathing harshly, glaring. He wasn't sure how he'd managed, but he'd jerked free of Perv's hold. “Big difference."

Perv ignored the correction, eyes still flat and lustful. "You never cry when you're awake. Oh, you scream some, that's to be expected, but I haven’t yet seen a single tear. Maybe I’m losing my touch.”

Dean grimaced. “Well, your self-confidence doesn't seem to be suffering any."

Grabbing Dean’s hair, Perv shoved his head back roughly against the pole and leaned in close. Dean’s back scream at the abrasive touch of the barbed wire, but the man holding Dean’s head didn’t seem to notice the way his eyes glazed over in renewed pain.

"Don’t test me boy," Perv breathed into his captive's face. "You’ll soon experience how little my self-confidence is at issue. I’ll keep you on a drugged leash so short you won’t know if it’s been a day or a year since I took you from that alley. You’ll learn to be nothing more than my toy."

The hold continued. Painful. Sweat poured from Dean’s head, masking the tears that fled his eyes at the strain of keeping his back arched, neck screaming in pain.

"You... still don't know...," Dean gritted, "...if someone's going to come looking for me." It was a gamble but one he felt sure would work.

One side of Perv's mouth curved into a self-satisfied grin. "Oh, I think I know, alright."

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**Pulling** up to St. Mary’s Community Clinic, Sam cut the engine and sat for a moment. Adrenaline and worry were fueling him, keeping him going, because inside, his body still recovering from his illness, and he was done in. Exhausted.

Sam had kind of scared himself earlier. Stopping at the library's restroom to splash water on his face, he’d taken a look at his face. The image staring back at him had been frightening. The fluorescent lights illuminated the too pale features and deep lines around his eyes.

Once he went inside the clinic, others would see it too.

Actually, he was counting on it. It would work nicely with the story he’d concocted in his head on the drive over.

There was usually what amounted to a Winchester-amount of decorum when posing as feds, but not tonight. Given what he’d seen in Brimmer’s apartment, there wasn’t time for that.

So, dressed in nothing but street clothes, disheveled and eyes red-rimmed from staring at written pages for far too long, Sam did what the Winchesters did best: let the truth play out. Sorta.

 _This will work,_ Sam thought as he looked at the sign above the clinic. _It has to._ Knowing what he did now, they were running out of time. More importantly, Dean was running out of time.

Sam looked at the sign above the clinic: **St. Mary’s Community Clinic. Free to those in need.**

The Impala’s driver’s side door creaked as he got out and spared a quick glance at oncoming traffic. The way was clear and he bounded eagerly, releasing the pent up walls he’d built around the truth in front of Sara and Angie, and let the images he had seen in Brimmer’s apartment fuel his wild-eyed appearance. It was almost a relief to let it all out.

According to Dean's note, he'd stopped at the clinic twice during his three days of recon and it was likely during one, or all of those visits, that Brimmer had caught wind that Dean was too close. Sam, having seen the evidence for himself of what this thing was capable of, what it had done to its victims, knowing that it was possibly doing the exact same thing to Dean...

Sam pushed down the bile and anxiety. Pushed away the images he'd seen. He needed to think clearly, keep his mind focused on the here and now.

Jerking open the door to the clinic, Sam paid little attention to anything else, fixing his eyes instead on the woman behind the counter. Dark hair streaked with gray, gathered at the nape of her neck, head bent over a stack of papers that she was methodically stamping.

Setting his jaw, Sam reached the counter in six long strides, eyes flicking to her name tag: Mildred. She didn’t so much as look up at his approach.

“Have a seat and fill this out,” she said, slapping a clipboard on the counter. Head still bent, pen still scratching furiously on paper, she added, “Set it up here when you’re done. We'll be with you soon as we can.”

Sam let her disinterest wash over him, fueling his irritation and raw emotions of fear and worry. In some bizarre way, this was just what he needed. He’d done nothing but hide it for the last several hours; letting out just some of the pent up urgency would feel pretty damn good.

Still he took a quick look around the waiting room, knowing just how much he’d have to temper his release. There were two drunks holding each other up on two corner seats and a guy twitching at regular intervals, apparently having a discussion with his reflection on one of the awareness billboards hanging on the wall.

Not one of them seemed to be sharing the same plane of reality as the rest of the world.

Sam flipped open the fold on his badge and tossed it to land in the dead center of her notes. Her pen froze. “Just so long as ‘soon as we can' means now.”

Mildred eyed the credentials. “What? The last guy didn’t do his job right or something?” She looked up then, her eyes taking in his appearance with the suspicion Sam had expected.

“’The last guy’ was my partner,” Sam barreled ahead; it wasn’t exactly difficult to convey the worry that was so deeply entrenched in his heart. “Were you here when he came in?”

“Agent Barrett.” She nodded. “I remember him. I spoke to him, as did a few others.” Her eyes continued to gaze at him with suspicion and doubt. “Why? What’s this all about?”

“It’s about this being the last place Agent Barrett stopped before I lost contact with him this morning. It’s about him being in danger and me needing to find him.” Sam leaned in menacingly, his voice lowered. “It’s about you telling me everything you know about his whereabouts and his business here.”

It amazed Sam how quickly, if he unleashed his full anger and worry, it seemed to consume him. Frightening her hadn’t been his objective, but it was clear from the look in her eyes and her body language as she took a step back from him that he had.

Sam straightened, adopted a contrite look. “Please, he’s my partner.”

“Your partner.” The disbelief in the flatness of her statement, the tone, it came through loud and clear. “No offense but you hardly look like a Fed.”

“I know, I—” Sam sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Look, we were a day outside of town when I came down with the flu. My partner took care of me through the worst of it, then once my fever broke and it became apparent all I was good for was sleeping, he began preliminary groundwork on our leads without me. I think he may have stumbled across the criminal we were investigating.”

“Oh.” The nurse’s eyes seemed to soften a bit as she looked down at the counter, like she was thinking about something. “Kinda makes sense now.”

“What does?”

“He looked rough, tired. I asked if he felt alright. Looked like he hadn’t slept in days.”

“Yeah.” Sam carded a hand through his hair, guilt over the time he’d been a burden to his brother warring with the push-back he’d given him over this whole case to begin with. “He’s one of a kind. Almost like a brother to me.”

“Well, your partner left here about nine-ish yesterday," Mildred continued, "and we’ve not seen him since. So, how can I help you?”

“I found his notes, abandoned with our car and after sifting through them, doing more recon on my own...” Sam leaned in once more, and this time Mildred didn’t shy away. “I strongly suspect the person he was inquiring about, the person we’re looking for, works at this clinic.”

Mildred was shaking her head in denial before Sam even finished. “No. Nothing but good people work here. We serve the poor and destitute, those without. No. I don’t believe that.”

Sam drew his eyes up, conveying sympathy and certainty. “Mildred, that person we’re looking for? I think he was here when my partner was asking questions. He has my partner now. I know it for a fact.”

“You can’t possibly be right. He was talking about missing kids, those kids who were…,” she blanched and whispered, “skinned. No one here would—”

“What better cover to build trust? What better place to seek out the victims this guy preys upon? I’ve got to find him and I’ve got to find my partner before it’s too late. I’m already aware of a newly reported missing person. A child. I think this boy was taken to lure my br—partner in.”

“But who would—”

“William Brimmer,” Sam interrupted. “He works here, does he not?”

Mildred stood straight now, the look on her face bordering on panic.

“Oh, my God, weird Bill?” another voice interjected. Sam watched as a woman rounded the corner of a glass brick wall. This one was wearing green scrubs, younger than Mildred, shorter and no doubt, college age. “I knew it. That guy’s always given me the creeps.”

“Kelsey,” Mildred admonished. “Enough.”

“C’mon,” Kelsey looked at her co-worker. “It totally makes sense. I told you how he was looking at that other Fed.” She scrunched her shoulders, an exaggerated shudder traveling her upper body. “Creep.”

Sam jumped in, hoping he’d read their shared expressions right. “Kelsey, you say he was eyeing my partner?”

“Oh, yeah, in a totally odd way too. Like he was angry with him, or something.”

“Listen,” Mildred interjected toward Sam. “I appreciate that you’re worried about your partner, but rumor mills are an awful thing and I don’t want one started here.” She tossed a pointed look at her coworker then turned back to Sam. “I will admit, Bill’s odd, but that doesn’t make him a killer.”

“The evidence I found is undeniable. William Brimmer has my partner and probably the boy who was just reported missing yesterday and I have to find them.”

Mildred’s face fell further, but still she balked. “Then go to the police over here, or other Feds.”

Sam slammed a hand on the counter. “There isn’t any time! Getting warrants and going through channels will take time that my partner and that kid do not have!” He took Mildred’s hands, his eyes imploring her. “Please. I need information and I need it fast.”

“I’m sorry, but,” Mildred carefully extracted her hands from Sam’s grasp, “but I'm not under any authority to—”

“I checked out Brimmer’s apartment. Not only is he not there, but according to neighbors he hasn’t been there in days. Has he been back here since yesterday? Do you have any idea where he might be? Any get-away place? A favorite spot? What am I missing here, Mildred?”

“He’s on vacation right now. Started yesterday, actually.” Mildred hesitated only a moment, then surrendered. “He—he usually takes this week off every year. Like clockwork. Goes out to his parents’ farm to…” The opportunity and means suddenly clicked in her mind and the same horrific conclusion widened her eyes. “Oh, my God.”

“Ew, it really is him doing all that stuff, isn’t it? Sicko!” Kelsey said from behind Mildred. “Like, the papers said those boys had been sexually assaulted….”

“Where is that farm? Do you have the address in his file?” Sam asked eagerly. He had them.

Mildred’s mouth opened and closed several times. “No, we only care about current addresses. When his mother worked here—”

“Wait.” Sam stopped her, feeling the possibility of a breakthrough coming closer. “If his mother worked here there would be an employee file. Something with her address.”

“No. Not here. They box them up after seven years and send them to storage.”

“Did anyone here know her on a friendly basis who might know wher—”

“Margret Brimmer?” Mildred huffed. “Ran this place well enough but kept to herself, up ‘til the time she died. Car wreck I heard. The new clinic manager gave Billy this job more out of pity I think. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen at the time.”

“Dammit,” Sam fumed. Scrubbing at his head in frustration, he tried to think. They needed to know where Brimmer was but didn’t necessarily need to let him know they knew who he was because chances were that wherever this farm was, Dean was there, and—

“You could try calling Bill,” Kelsey tossed out. Sam and Mildred both looked at her. “I mean, if you could get him here…”

“Right.” Sam smiled. An idea suddenly presented itself, just by one small suggestion. “Only, I can’t let him know I’m onto him. This all has to be done quietly. Can you reach him Mildred?”

“Yeah, he’s got a cell number on file.”

“Think he’ll come in if you need him to?”

Mildred huffed. “Oh, this place is like a second home to him. He’ll come runnin’, sure enough.”

“Good.” Sam felt a surge of triumph he didn't dare show. “Call him. Tell him you need something from him. Something the clinic needs.”

“What’ll you do when he gets here?” Mildred asked, but that question alone told Sam she was going to work with him on this. “Bad enough if he’s really that nut job they’ve been looking for all these years, but I don’t need something started here at the clinic.”

Sam canted his head in acquiescence. “Not a problem. All I need is for you and your staff to not tip him off when he gets here. Then, once he leaves I follow him. Hopefully back to wherever he’s keeping the prisoners.”

Mildred seemed satisfied and after a quick nod began clacking away at the computer resting on a desk behind the counter. The screen lit her face in green tones as she mumbled, “Now, I just got to think of something that will get him here.”

“Oh,” Kelsey snapped her fingers. “The overflow supplies in the basement storage locker! Tell him we came up short today, can’t find our key and need those supplies before we open tomorrow. That freak’s always got a full, spare set of keys on him.”

Mildred nodded at Kelsey and picked up the phone by the desk. After dialing she stood. And waited, biting at her lower lip, clearly nervous. Sam suddenly had to worry, not only about Dean, but the clinic staff. They had to be able to play it cool or this whole thing would blow up in his face and instead of two people in danger, he’d find himself with a handful.

“Billy?” The older woman gazed down at her desk, calling upon some kind of inner calm. “Mildred…”

While she spoke, Sam’s brow creased anxiously. A lot of what they were about to do rode on the backs of these strangers. Very nice strangers, but strangers all the same. And in the Winchesters’ world, you just didn’t put your life or the life of someone you loved, your family, in the hands of others.

That’s exactly what he was being forced to do, and Sam hated every minute of it.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**It** had been the constant rambling and movement in the barn that had woken Dean this time.

This time, unlike all the times before, he'd passed out from exhaustion. It'd been one hell of a day. Or two. The jury was still out on that one.

Seemingly at odds with himself, Perv was pacing the floor, mumbling, poking his own fingers at himself, jabbering unintelligibly. Intent for the time being on some internal struggle, he didn't seem to know of his captive’s return to consciousness.

He just… paced. Back and forth, rambling and pacing. It was... dizzying.

So much so that Dean found it hard to keep his eyes open. At one point his gaze drifted shut and he just rested, listening to the movement in the room, though every now and again he'd peek, to check up on things, feel the nail in his hand. He’d grabbed it so tightly that the tip of the nail had slipped beneath the skin of his palm. But that was good. That made sure that the nail wouldn’t fall down as Dean’s consciousness kept escaping his control.

It was Perv's abrupt return to what Dean had come to consider the 'cart of doom' that perked Dean right up.

It was almost comical the way Perv waved a finger like he'd just remembered something then moved intently up to the metal pushcart. This close Dean could hear his mutterings better, get at least the gist of his endless prattle.

It was a list. He was verbally going over things he had and would need. Like a shopping list.

Dean grinned. "Eggs, milk, sugar,” he said, head wobbled to one side, eyes sliding shut. Sleep felt damn good right now. “Oh... and could you get a fan? Fucking hot in here.” He was already dreaming of air-conditioned rooms.

It was a short lived respite. Something sharp jabbed into his thigh and his head shot up.

"The... hell?" Dean slurred and glanced down at the hypodermic in his leg. Compared to everything else he'd been through, it was less than a bee sting but still... the hell?

"Relax," Perv husked as he leaned in to speak next to Dean's ear, "it’s an antibiotic and a tetanus shot. My own little cocktail." Once the medicine was emptied from the syringe he pulled it out.

Dean coughed. “Gee,” he bit back sarcastically, “you’re all heart.”

“Well,” Perv said matter-of-factly, “can’t have you dying on me before we've had our fun, can we?”

"We? 'S gonna be a very one-sided relationship you perverted fuck. One-sided as in me kickin' your ass and you..." Dean coughed, "getting your ass kicked."

Perv gave no indicator that he was listing, or that he cared for Dean's threats, he only moved in closer, eyes searching impassively. “I’m afraid the barbed wire isn’t without a fair amount of rust," he said, carefully inspecting the barbs that were still deeply seated in Dean’s chest.

Dean felt more than heard Perv move away. Caving in to fatigue, he let his head rest on one shoulder. Listened to the sounds of his own rasping breaths. Felt the pull of sleep, almost more than he could resist.

Almost. It was the too-near presence, the too-quiet of the room, the sounds of someone else breathing harshly that drew Dean back to the surface.

Dean lazily opened his eyes. "You’re just gonna stand there and watch me slee—"

Eyes wide, Perv was frozen to spot. Gaze fixed on something, mouth open.

Dean felt his own internal alarms going off because if something could freak this guy out, Dean was doubly freaked out. So he jerked his head around in his limited range of motion. Looking for whatever...

“What?” Dean blinked rapidly, staring confused at Perv. “You see a rat or something?” He looked around, trying to catch sight of the long tailed rodent. Rats were not on high on Dean's list of things he loved. Probably a real close second to Perv.

Seeing nothing Dean noticed Perv had resumed his anxious pacing. The rambling mumble followed though it was louder this time, the words more distinct and enunciated and Dean could make out every word. He was arguing, undoubtedly with whatever or whoever haunted his lunatic’s mind.

"Dude," Dean relaxed when he realized there was no immediate threat, "you are giving me the heebiejeebies."

The argument continued. Perv didn't look at Dean, didn't respond to him. Only talked anxiously to the voices in his head.

"I'm keeping him," he argued decisively. "Only... Momma will be so very angry." He shook his head. Then suddenly he spun and paced in the other direction. "Tough, though! It’s not like it’s her decision to make," he shot back, "my catch, my toy, my decision. Mine!" and spun again. "She’ll scream... I know she’ll scream at me... Maybe I should just kill him now. She'll be very disappointed if I don't... I don’t like seeing her disappointed."

"Great," Dean muttered quietly, "schizoid _and_ a psychopath."

Perv continued apparently all but forgetting about the presence of anyone else in the barn. And ‘Momma’, apparently, wanted Dean six feet under. Nice family.

Fascinating as all this was, Dean was losing his own internal battle. The struggle for consciousness was fading fast.

While part of him wanted to give into the exhaustion and let the bliss of unconsciousness ease his pain, the other part of him, the brother part of him—the protector—the part that needed to get back to Sam, was more powerful.

Still, he needed to pace himself, give himself a chance to regroup, rest so that when the time for escape arrived, he’d be able. So, he slowly lowered his head, resting his chin to his chest, and waited.

"Alright there, Sybil," Dean's eyes were already half closed. "I'm just gonna l... let you and, um, you talk. 'M gonna take a nap... ‘kay?"

Dean didn't sleep. Just let himself drift just below the surface, but no further. Just far enough under where he could hear. Where his senses could still reach him.

An odd, out of place chirping sound pulled him back and he rolled his head to the side in order to gaze up inconspicuously. Perv drew his cell from one pocket and stared at the caller ID before opening it even as he walked outside. “This is Billy…”

The lack of activity, attention and stimulation all worked to lull Dean’s senses. He couldn’t make out what Perv was saying, just the drone of his voice.

Whatever had been in that shot, it was more. More than what Perv'd said it was. He knew the feeling. The sense of fluidity of time. The deeper pull that was stronger than exhaustion. Stronger than gravity. More like a press.

A sedative of some kind. It beckoned Dean further, deeper. But he fought it, swam the tide that wanted nothing more than to drag him beneath and into the undertow.

Time lost all meaning in that hazy, relaxed moment. Lost all pace and attachment to his situation. It felt good to just float, for a moment.

Then, the haze receded and once again Dean's head was lifted and pressed back. This time, though, it wasn't painful.

Heated puffs crashed against his skin, skin that seemed to be having a hard time discerning between heat and cold. Perv's voice followed, slick and creepy. “I'm going to have to leave for awhile.” The grip in his hair loosened but not enough to allow him movement.

Dean didn’t open his eyes until he heard the snip of wire being cut. The pressure around his torso lessened and the barbs shifted in his flesh. Dean didn't have to look to know; Perv had cut the wire around his chest.

Blinking into the fuzzy light, Dean watched Perv as he strode back to the table and placed the wire cutters down. There was something different...

Several rapid blinks and Dean's vision was back to clear. Mind slower to follow, he gazed curiously at Perv.

Then it clicked.

Instead of the jeans and flannel shirt from earlier, Perv was now wearing the same damn gray coveralls Dean had first seen him in. A uniform. Neatly pressed and clean.

Dean squinted at the writing on what he now realized was some kind of employee identification badge. He could make out a logo and the larger lettering beneath: _William Brimmer, Janitor_.

“Time for your day job, hum?” Dean coughed, his voice rough and gravelly. “Bringing home the bacon, when you’re not busy torturing people?”

"Told you, Dean," Perv ignored the dig, "I fly under the radar. No one ever notices me."

"Right. You only talk to the kids. And no one talks to them, so long as they fit your profile." Dean shook his head.

“I’ve got to leave for awhile,” Perv repeated. “Since you and me are going to get to know one another better, I’m gonna grab some extra supplies. My medical leash lacks a few links to be complete.”

Dean huffed. “You lack a _lot_ of links, pal.”

“Call me Billy."

"No way," Dean muttered. 'Billy' sounded too young. Too innocent. No, Dean would call him Bill.

"When I get back,” Bill fussed with some hay that had attached itself to his sleeve and brushed it off. Then his eyes met Dean’s, cold and cruel. “When you’re more… pliable… we can spend some quality time together.”

“Terrific,” Dean gritted out unenthusiastically. No doubt it would mean loads more pain, more drugs and then, given how Perv was looking at him—

Bill’s hand dipped down and Dean knew a moment of panic. "Um," he straightened, fear jerking him upward, "Thought you had to go somewhere." Perv grabbed the wire around Dean's chest. The same wire he'd cut earlier. "Wh—"

The word was sucked away on a wave of unmitigated pain.

In one vicious pull, the wire was jerked from Dean's body. Pain sent sparks flying behind his eyes and intensified as the imbedded barbs ripped viciously out of his chest. Eyes squeezed shut, he threw his head back but didn't cry out.

The agony was driving him under again.

The next words seemed to come from far away, even as they were spoken next to his ear. Even as the warm breath ghosted over his flesh. Even as he felt the heat of Perv's body close. “When I get back, we’ll be together Dean. Forever.”

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)


	9. Chapter 9

  


**Despite** the cold, despite the dark, damp prison, which he had come to consider as penance for all the dumb things he’d done in his short life, Jeremy had managed to drift off into an exhausted, fitful sleep. With little room to maneuver from the wall to which he was chained, he’d backed into the nearest corner, curled into a tight ball to claim whatever warmth he could garner and nodded off.

Somewhere in the distant corners of his slumbering mind, he was aware of the constant chatter of his own teeth, echoing in the frigid concrete room. His body, too, never ceased its constant trembling.

Nightmares plagued his fear-filled mind. Images of his parents, his dad leaving him because he wasn’t worth sticking around for, his mother’s apathetic remarks. But the visions that left him tossing were those of the bodies: kids, dead, mutilated, limbs scattered all over. Blood coating every surface nearby and pooling around Jeremy’s ankles.

None of the faces were recognizable to him, just boys, mostly about his age. They screamed and begged for mercy from a man whose back remained turned. Each time they were denied. In the end, all that remained was their broken, mutilated bodies.

It seemed to go on forever, until finally, their faces and screams faded….

Then, a hand took hold of his upper arm and a man looming in front of him turned; it was Billy. Smiling. Offering him money for lunch, because Jeremy hadn’t managed to get food before running out the door to escape another round with his angry, unreasonable mother.

Just as Jeremy relaxed and returned the smile, Billy’s kind, friendly face, shifted. It turned dark, ugly, the hand on his upper arm dug in viciously, brutal and bruising. A knife appeared in his other hand, raised high and prepared to strike.

Instinct made Jeremy raise one arm for protection but he screamed as the knife came down. Loud, deafening. It echoed and then faded, replaced with images of himself, broken, cut up and screaming. Pictures of Bill, a man he’d considered a friend, laughing as he cut him again and again.

The screams seemed to change, from his higher, younger voice to something more primal, deeper. Older. The man in the barn. The man with the green eyes, the one from the street, who was now standing between Jeremy and Bill’s knife.

The knife plunged deep into the man’s chest. Blood, fountains of it poured out.

“NOOOOOOO…!” Jeremy called out. He didn't know why, but he did.

Jeremy had never met the man before and yet, he meant something to him. Safety. Protection. And he was dying. Right in front of his eyes. Bill had seen to that.

Too late Jeremy realized Bill was stalking back toward him. Things got more confusing.

Jeremy was on the ground, arms overhead, chained. The cold air licked at his bare, exposed skin; his clothes were gone. Bill’s clothes were gone—

Jeremy jerked awake. Heart racing, breaths puffing thick clouds.

Jeremy’s hands patted over his body; he was wearing clothes. He wasn’t—

“And he’ll do the same to you too,” a familiar male voice rasped from near Jeremy’s left side.

Surprised, Jeremy jumped. In a mad scramble of arms and limbs, numb from the cold, he tried shifting away. But in the corner where he’d drifted off, the cold cement wall to his left blocked any retreat.

“Then,” the man spoke softly, staring at Jeremy, “he’ll kill you, like he did with all the others.”

The words, the man's presence, they combined to send Jeremy into a panic. He opened his mouth to scream but the sound caught in his throat. In a move unnaturally fast, Billy's father was at his side, face close to his ear.

“Shhhhh,” he whispered, then canted his head to the side, looking upward, listening for something.

Jeremy stiffened, mouth shutting with an audible snap.

It seemed an age before Billy's dad seemed to relax and start again. “Trust me; you don't want _her_ down here. Bad as Billy is, she made him that way. He may be a monster, but she's evil.”

“Wh–who?” Jeremy finally found his voice.

“Margret,” Billy's dad said as he paced over to the steps, shoes oddly quiet in the cavernous room. “She's sulking in her room now, staring out the window, waiting for her Billy-boy to come back.” He looked back at Jeremy. “She hears me down here talking to you, then...”

Jeremy remembered their earlier conversation; Margret. Billy's mom.

“So no screaming or yelling, right? 'Cause, then maybe I can get you out of here. Free.”

Jeremy honed in on the word ‘free’ and nodded, eyes wide.

“Good.” Bill's dad nodded and backed away. He cast and anxious glace up the stairs, hands wringing nervously in front of him. “‘Cause I'm tired of all the screaming, all the dying—don’t wanna hear anymore.” He stopped and stared at Jeremy. “That boy last month, I promised that if I got the chance, that would be the last one. No more.”

The guy sounded completely bat-shit crazy but if there was someone else up there, if this Margret was worse than Billy... the longer this took the slimmer their odds for success would be.

“I promise,” Jeremy whispered, “no yelling. Just get me outta here. Please.”

“Smart boy, you are. Yup,” the man grunted and knelt down next to Jeremy. The boy tried to sit forward to give him better access to the chain. “Sit still,” he corrected. “Don't want her hearing the chain move so much.”

“W-why?” Jeremy bit his lip. Aunt Theresa had told him once, ‘If it seems too good to be true, it probably is’. So as much as he dreaded hearing it, he feared more just how much he’d be willing to do to get free. “Why’re you helping me?”

“’Cause,” he grunted. Jeremy felt the chain move some. “They’re distracted—Margret's losing control over Billy all because of _him_ , the one trussed up in the barn. ‘Cause maybe the screams will stop. Screams of the dead. I can’t take it anymore. You're next and already too many have died.”

“Wh-why?” Jeremy choked back a sob, but anger flooded quicker than he realized and he continued in a hushed whisper, “I never did anything to Billy.”

The man eased back to look at Jeremy. “You look like him, like little Frankie. Margret wouldn’t have it. He wasn’t good enough for him. For her baby. She killed him. Made Billy crazy.”

Jeremy had heard all this before; he couldn’t hold back now. He sobbed, openly, loudly. Tears flowed freely down his face.

“No… nononono,” the man said, more anxious than soothing. “That’s what they hate. Tears. Weakness. Shhh… I’ll get you out, but you have to be quiet. We don’t have much time.”

Despite his young years, hardship and learning the hard way to not let anyone in or show any weakness had taught Jeremy plenty about controlling his emotions. Reaching down he managed it. Took a shuddering breath.

“That’s it,” the man soothed this time. “The man in the barn…,” his gaze drifted toward one of the outside walls, the direction Jeremy had heard the shouts of pain earlier, “he’s holding out longer than the other one did and that’s good— for us, anyway.”

The shouts of agony had stopped but Jeremy remembered them; they echoed in his memory like that nightmare. “Wha-what’s Billy doing to him?”

“I don’t know. I’m not allowed there. But this one’s strong, much stronger than that cop all those other years ago. He lasted a few hours before Billy killed him. This one though, well, Billy rather likes this one. This is good for us. For now.”

Jeremy shuddered. He couldn’t imagine anyone’s prolonged pain and suffering being a good thing so he just had to ask, “Why?”

“Because,” the man turned toward Jeremy and at this distance, Jeremy could see the sadness in his eyes. “He’s a distraction.” He went back to fiddling with the chains. “Billy and Margret are so busy arguing over him that I can be here. Do this.”

Jeremy felt the chain grow taut then a loud clang as one of the links broke in half, leaving a short length of metal chain hanging from the cold metal bracelet on his wrist. He was free.

Quickly gathering his hands in front of him, Jeremy scooted into the nearest corner, away from the man.

The man stood and backed away, head turned to glance up the basement stairs. “You’re gonna have to be brave now, and quiet too. Can you do that? Be quiet?”

“I-I think so,” Jeremy squeaked back.

“Good ‘cause from here, you’re on your own.” He looked at Jeremy and for the first time, Jeremy saw fear in his eyes. And shame. “I’m sorry. I’m just not as strong as her so… don’t let her hear you leave.”

About halfway up the stairs he turned, sad watery eyes fixed on him. “It’s not all Billy’s fault you know, but he and Margret…,” he swallowed. “When you get out, you run. Find cops. Don’t let him bring anyone here again.”

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

>   
>  _**"DEAN!"** _
> 
> _“Sammy?!" The call goaded him into action and Dean dropped his shoulder. With as much strength as he could muster, he surged forward._
> 
> _Caught off-balance, the throng stumbled back enough and gaped open. Dean seized the chance and slipped through the first one, zigging left, then another to his right, making headway, but not at all sure this was the right way._
> 
> _“Keep calling!” Dean needed to keep him shouting, needed a response, needed to get his bearings. ”I’m coming! Just hang on!”_
> 
> _“Watch out for your brother.” Dad's voice echoed in his head._
> 
> _"I'm trying," he muttered brokenly. “Dad, I’m,” another body pushed into him, “trying.” The disappointment in his father's voice twisted like a knife in his chest._
> 
> _It was hard not to notice the unfamiliar faces of the crowd, glaring condescendingly at him, mouths drawn in stern lines of disappointment and judgment. Still, Dean focused on the small gaps in the crowd as he pushed through. Hoping for just a glimpse, just a peek to make sure he was—_
> 
> _"You’re supposed to be saving people.” The crowd suddenly parted. A small boy, blond hair ruffling in the breeze stared hurt and accusingly back at Dean._
> 
> _Dean's mouth opened to say something—the crowd closed back again. The boy was gone. Sam was gone. "No..."_
> 
> _"DEEEEEEEAAAAN!" Sam's voice again, scared, panicked. "HEEEEELP!"_
> 
> _"No, no, Sammy!" Dean shouted again, trying to move forward._
> 
> _Pushing, shoving his way through. God, the crowd was so thick he wasn’t real sure he hadn't just been going in one gigantic circle. They teased, let him through, once, twice, a third time, and just when he thought he was making headway, they swarmed and swelled._
> 
> _"Dammit." Dean was buffeted backward. Righting himself he dived forward, like it was some enormous mosh pit, throwing himself into the bodies, shouting, "MOVE!”_
> 
> _But they didn’t. They bounced off one another, but never really moved. Never went anywhere. Their eyes condemned even without looking at him. Dean heard their comments, full of scorn and rebuke but their mouths never moved, their eyes blank and vacant._
> 
> _Nothing but lost, empty souls. Trapped. Moving in circles. Just like him._
> 
> _There were hundreds, thousands, millions of them, all around, crowding in on all sides. Their presence made it hard to think. Hard to hear. Hard to breathe._
> 
> _There were so many and yet, he'd never felt so alone. Alone with his failed promises. Alone without Mom. Without Dad, and now, without Sam._
> 
> _"I told you to keep an eye on your brother." Dad again. Dean didn't look at him. This time Dean closed his eyes against the accusatory pain._
> 
> _"I'm trying," he whispered disheartened and anguished. "Dad I—"_
> 
> _"That’s the thing about you Dean," the voice changed. It wasn't Dad. It was psycho Perv. Bill. "You try and you try and yet, you still fail."_
> 
> _Dean opened his eyes. Bill leaned in, a mock smile on his face. "Think that since your Daddy don't want you, I'll just keep you—and your brother."_
> 
> _Hands balled into fists, Dean wanted to lift them. Wanted to wipe that look off Perv's face. "You don't touch my brother," he ground out, jaw clenched tight. "You don't—"_
> 
> _Bill was gone. In the distance, Dean saw a small, familiar boy, playing, carefree, eyes full of trust and devotion. Dean couldn't put a finger on who—_
> 
> _"C'mon, Dean." The man’s voice slithered down Dean's spine. "You know who that is."_
> 
> _Dean shook his head in confusion._
> 
> _"Ah, guess they were right about you being the dumb one," Bill chuckles. Then his voice goes calm. "Don’t you remember little Sammy?"_
> 
> _The air drove from Dean's lungs like he’d been gut-punched._
> 
> _It was Sam. A much younger Sam. Fourteen-year-old version of Sam._
> 
> _Dean wanted to run to him, tried to move, but found his legs wouldn't work._
> 
> _The other man didn’t seem to have the same difficulties, however. The crowd parted easily for him as he walked through, strolling casually toward his brother. Carefree. He turned toward Dean, walking backward, still approaching the fourteen-year-old Sam._
> 
> _"He's not my normal taste, hair’s too dark... eyes not quite blue,” Bill grinned, “but then again, neither are you, so, might as well enjoy, right?"_
> 
> _"NO!" Dean shouted. Sweat was pouring down his face, neck and back. He had to get to his brother, had to protect him. He’d promised Dad. "SAMMY! RUN!"_
> 
> _Sam just looked back at Dean. Smiling. Trusting._
> 
> _"Don't look s' sad Dean," the man shouted back. "I'll be back for you," a slimy smile slithered across his face, "when I'm done with your brother."_
> 
> _The crowed closed back. Swallowing up his brother, the perverted monster. They were gone._
> 
> _Noise. Voices. So loud...._
> 
> _The people, they were all looking at him now. Shouting. Accusing. “Your fault…” “Never were any good…” “Always failing…” “Letting your family down…”_
> 
> _It was deafening, making Dean’s ears pound incessantly. "No, I'm-" he covered his ears, wincing at the onslaught of sound. “Sam!" he shouted, trying to ignore the others._
> 
> _The volume increased, pressure so intense it drove Dean to his knees. His fingers scraped against the floor feeling for something, anything to keep him from keeling over._
> 
> _Something wet covered his hands—blood. “NOOOOO!” Dean shouted, eyes squeezed shut, the sound so strong his head felt like it’d explode if it—_
> 
> _“Deeeeeaaaan?” the younger Winchester’s voice shouted above the cacophony. “Please… don’t let him hurt me.”_
> 
> _Fighting against the agony, Dean rose, slowly, growling at his own weakness. Opening his eyes he saw Bill, little Sammy smiling at Bill._
> 
> _Launching forward, Dean found his feet. Ran, legs pumping hard as he moved. “Bastard!” he glared at Bill. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you.”_
> 
> _Sam was smiling up at Bill, trusting, relaxed. Bill laid a possessive hand on Sam’s shoulder, and together they moved away, their backs to Dean. Before they rounded the corner, Bill tossed a knowing glance over at Dean._
> 
> _Then they were gone. Dean’s heart lurched and he ran harder. “Nooooo!”_
> 
> _Dean rounded the corner and came to a stop. “Sammy!” There was no one. He was alone. Tears flood his eyes then spilled down his cheeks. “No…Sammy…”_
> 
> _Exhausted he dropped to the ground, dejected. The weight of his failure pressing him further down. Head heavy, he dropped his chin to his chest, overwhelmed._
> 
> _“Dean...,” Sam’s voice beckoned. It was older, steadier. Confident and strong. Like that night in Palo Alto when Dean showed up to tell him about Dad. “You gotta get up. Get outta here.”_
> 
> _“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean murmured, head burrowed into the darkness he’d claimed for himself. Exhausted, it felt so good just to let go, stop fighting it. “Just… need a minute. Hurts. Everything hurts, S’mmy.”_
> 
> _“I know, but—” Sam inhaled sharply. “Dean!” Oh God, it was that young, high pitched Sammy again. Anxious and filled with fear._
> 
> _Sam's screaming reminded Dean of that time they'd summered in West Virginia. Stumbling on a lake spirit, the thing had grabbed Sam’s ankle and dragged him toward the water. But this wasn't that time. This was Bill, serial killer, child molester, murderer Bill._
> 
> _“You gotta stop him,” young Sam’s voice shouted. “He—he’s killing me. I’m next, Dean! You got—oh no, Dean! HELP ME!”_

...“SAMMY!” Dean bolted upright, eyes wide and searching. Heart hammering hard in his chest, shuddering breath wheezing in the empty space. "Sam? Wha...?" he breathed.

Reality was slow to return but when Dean blinked, heaved a deep breath, it all came crashing back.

Perv. The barn. He was still in the damn barn. The images of little Sam... it had all been a dream, a nightmare.

The nightmare and the task ahead loomed before him, daunting and at the same time urgent. Dean flexed his hands, the pain of the nail in his palm reminding him of what he needed to do; get free, find Sam. Dean shook his head. The kid, he corrected. Find the kid Bill had taken — assuming he was still alive — and get the kid and hell outta Dodge.

Curious to know how long he'd been out, he gazed woozily at one of the barn windows, noting how the shadows cast by the interior barn light had not shifted; he'd not been out long. “Finally, a little good luck.”

Eyes closed, Dean worked the nail free from his skin, cursing as his numb fingers worked too slowly for his haste. Finally, he had a solid grip on the nail’s head.

“Okay,” Dean breathed out. “Good... good Dean. Now for the hard part.”

It took far to long to gain any clarity of vision, but he had to move. Now. Had to get a look at just where the square locking disc in the zip tie was and how he'd get to it. But his hands kept trembling, muscles fighting against the cold and the strain. If he lost his grip on that nail now...

Taking a deep breath Dean opened his eyes, blinked a few times, pleased that things seemed clearer, less warbled. He leaned his head back and to the right, moving away from the pole as far as his protesting shoulders would allow and gazed upward.

“Perfect,” he breathed out as he noted the position of the lock. The square was near the center of his outside wrist, and while not perfectly centered, a few twists, agonizing as they were, would bring it further around.

After working the nail toward the tips of his left hand thumb and forefinger, he curled his hand over the right wrist, aiming for the plastic square, careful to keep the top of the nail pointed toward the lock.

Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging, making him want to shake it away, but he didn't dare. Blinking several times he maintained his concentration.

Finally the nail was poised over the square and he pressed it in. With the tip of the nail imbedded into the lock he curled his wrist hard, forcing it to press with his last bit of strength and determination.

There was absolutely no sound, but Dean felt it when the plastic finally gave way. It worked.

Letting gravity do the rest, Dean bit on his lip to stop himself from screaming as his arms fell down, useless lumps of meat after being strung up for so long.

Dean sighed and brought his hands slowly away from one another, feeling the burn in every muscle in his shoulders. “God...”

The room swam again and he closed his eyes, hissing in pain, his arms now limp at his sides. “No passing out Dean.” Like the currents of electricity from earlier, hot needles of pain raced up and down his arms, shoulder and chest. “C'mon...”

After a moment, when he felt more in control, when the sensations ebbed, Dean opened his eyes. Tougher work lay just ahead.

“Ok,” Dean breathed out, “now, next step is to... well, take the next step.” He looked down at the tops of his thighs, eyes traveling to his knees, where his legs disappeared beneath him, folded and utterly unresponsive.

Like his arms, they too had lost all feeling—too bad that hadn't been the case when that asshole Perv had pressed that damned cattle prod to the bottoms of his feet—and making them work would be hell.

“So, what do ya think Bessie?” Dean glanced at the cow that had her back to him. “Maybe a triple twist with a two-and-a-half gainer?”

The cow swished her tail in answer.

“Sure, why not?” Dean muttered. This was going to hurt like hell. “Well, here goes nothing,” he coughed out.

Steeling himself for the agony ahead, Dean twisted his torso. Sort of. Legs still secured, motionless against the bindings and caught on either side of the pole. Renewed blood flow in the larger muscles was agonizing, and he huffed out a breath, closed his eyes and rode it out.

Hell, just getting enough movement to look at his ankles... that would be bad enough. No. Moving would definitely be worse.

Opening his eyes, he got a good look at his next obstacle: freeing his feet. His ankles were twisted in the industrial grade zip ties, blood, both old and new stuck to the tops of his feet and down to his heels. He couldn't wait to see how bad the bottoms of his feet were.

Well, actually... he could.

"Dammit, asshole took my boots," he muttered instead, because he'd rather focus on a fact that he'd known a long time before, than what he knew he had to do to get them free.

"Ok, now," he twisted and glanced at his left ankle, "for the hard part." Hell, it had all been hard, but he knew this would be harder still.

Dean sat back, pushing his already sore back against the unforgiving pole, and twisted his arm, just enough to get the nail into the ties. He had no choice but to go at it blindly, eyes closed in concentration as he arched back to reach his ankle.

Never let it be said that Dean Winchester was not a bendy guy.

It took more control than Dean figured he had, but he managed it. The tie securing the left ankle, the one he had to use his left hand to get at, was a bitch to unlock, though he strongly agreed it had more to do with his half numb fingers and awkward positioning and twisting. The nail slipped from his hand only three times. All three times he got it back.

Rather than move that leg, he stayed on his knees and repeated the same actions to free the right. That tie gave way fairly easily, both feet were free of the metal posts, which looked more like railroad ties.

Dean gingerly moved forward on his hands and knees, inching away as carefully as he could from the post, from the stakes, from the blood and sweat covered ground to which he'd been held for... And promptly puked on the floor, adding more gunk to the already soiling mess.

When the stomach revulsion finally ended, he lay panting. “'Course," he huffed breathlessly, "'cause being burned, cut-up, skewered by barbed wire and electrocuted wasn't enough? Gotta be sick too?”

Dean wiped at his brow, the angry heat beneath his skin telling him he was burning with fever. “Terrific,” he muttered, sitting back down, legs extended in front of him. From that position, he could see his damn leg muscles jumping above his knee, cramping all over.

Renewed blood flow and sensation reminded his body just how cold it was; a shiver trailed angrily down his spine. “Fuck.” Forgetting sore muscles, Dean reached up to rub at his exposed torso, starting with his arms. Teeth chattering, he looked around. “Cold, hot. Make up your mind Dean."

Shirt, coat, boots, God, he needed _something_ to protect him from further exposure.

"Okay," Dean sniffed, head wobbling, he looked about the room, "now, if I were a sick, perverted fuck, where would I leave my victims’ clothes?” Squinting his eyes he searched the dimness beyond the light of the bulb.

The barn was far bigger than he'd first realized. His eyes searched further into the room, not wanting to move yet, just hoping to see any small, out of place lump, or a swatch of cloth or boot lace. Or—

Dean's head froze. Leaning carefully to his right, he squinted hard. Just next to the one open stall window, a small mound peaked curiously back at him.

Switching from his arms to his thighs, Dean rubbed quickly at the flesh through his jeans. After a minute he rolled to his side, and bent one knee to get a foot beneath him. “Here goes nothin',” he said, and pushed up.

No sooner had he got his feet underneath him than Dean was falling to the floor again, chin scraping against the floor where his hands were still too numb and slow to catch his fall. “Son of a bi—” The epithet ended in a litany of coughs, light dimming all around him.

Dean turned his head. It was hard to focus but after a moment the image of Bessie swam into view. Head twisted in her stall, she was looking at him and no longer chewing. Clearly she was unimpressed.

“Aw c'mon,” Dean coughed again. “'Least I stuck the landing.”

Talking always helped Dean; whether anyone was in the room with him or not, it worked for him. So he talked. It helped him stay focused on what needed to be done, helped divert attention from the pain and moreover, the consequences of his failure if he didn't make it. There was another life at stake here; the kid.

Failure, he knew well, was not a Winchester option.

So, he talked. Even if it was to a cow.

Another swish of her tail and Bessie turned back, more interested in whatever she had to keep her belly full.

“Jeeze,” Dean blinked and swallowed the cotton in his mouth, “everyone's a critic.” A series of harsh coughs wracked his aching body again. This time was worse than the last, he did the only thing he could do: he rode it out, feeling each jerk of his body pull at his already aching muscles.

“God damn...," Dean groaned, "I'm gonna kill that asshole,” he promised. Forcing his sore shoulders to work again, he fought against the the pain and raised one hand and this time, using the post as a crutch, rose slowly, achingly to his feet.

Leaning against it, teeth grinding against the agony caused by putting weight on his feet, Dean stood still, stubbornly refusing to buckle to any of these 'discomforts,' reminding himself he was just damn lucky to be alive.

After a moment’s rest, “C'mon Winchester. Move your ass," he finished, then pushed away from the wall.

The efforts were less than graceful and more than clumsy and on more than one occasion he nearly took a headfirst pitch into the ground, but he managed it. Reaching the small mound, never once allowing himself the thought that it may not be what he'd hoped. Wavering, he stood, staring down muzzily at the the small pile of familiar clothing.

A slow smile spread across Dean's face. “Son of a—” and he sunk ungraciously to the ground.

The room faded and his head swam and he fought against the tide, against the exhaustion that he could no longer deny.

“D-damm...it,” Dean slurred as his voice faded and his eyes closed once again.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**The** plan had been simple enough. Sam would wait in his car and, when Brimmer left, Sam would follow.

The man in the photo, the one Mildred had photocopied for him, from Brimmer’s application file, didn’t look like a raging psycho killer who raped and tortured little boys for fun. Of course, they rarely did. This guy had mousy hair and large-framed dark glasses, and he looked more like a nerd than a threat. Sam guessed that was all part of the act.

Sam hated the fact that, from the time Brimmer arrived at the clinic, to the time he left again, the two women left in there would be alone and at the killer’s mercy. If Brimmer smelled a set up...

Judging by Mildred's pasty complexion and nervous glances, and Kelsey's scared-shitless face, it wasn't like Brimmer would have to be all that intuitive to get it. The pair of them seemed to be growing more anxious and nervous by the minute and that wouldn’t do. Not at all. If the man sensed a change in either of them, it could spook him.

Sam knew he couldn’t leave them here alone at this late hour. Not with him.

When he offered to sit in the waiting room, pose as a patient, to stay closer at hand should something go wrong, that seemed to sooth frazzled nerves immediately. The plan seemed to be back on track after that.

Mildred had let the remaining staff go for the night. There weren’t that many around, just a lab tech and another nurse. It was quiet enough; Bill wouldn’t think it out of the ordinary.

So, it was just Mildred and Kelsey remaining, as the latter had refused to leave, strangely protective of Mildred.

Sam pretended to be a patient. It seemed an easy fit given his appearance. Slumped down in one of the chairs in the waiting room it was all he could do to keep his head down as the clinic’s front door opened.

“Oh, thank heaven,” Mildred’s voice chimed in acknowledgment. “I’m so sorry you had to come in on your week off, Bill. Hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

Sam watched Brimmer’s boot-clad feet move across the linoleum.

“Anything for you and the clinic, Ms. Cooper, you know that.” Brimmer’s voice slid easily into the clinic’s harsh light and white walls. “Besides, I had to come into town anyway. Worked out for all of us.”

Sam heard more footsteps.

“Hey, Bill,” Kelsey said dryly. “Here to save my butt, I see.”

Well, he had to admit it. As nervous as the girls had seemed about Brimmer showing up, when the chips were down, they actually rose to the occasion. So far.

Sam chanced a look from over his upturned collar.

Brimmer wasn’t exactly an imposing man, barely reaching Kelsey’s height. He gave her a brief look, devoid of anything remotely resembling warmth, then turned to Mildred. “I’ll open that locker and bring the supplies right up.”

“No need for that,” Mildred’s voice cracked. Her calm demeanor was slipping. “If you could just unlock it, we’ll take care of it when you leave—”

“I insist.” Without another word he moved around the counter and disappeared down a long hallway.

Sam stood and moved quietly in that direction. At the entrance to the hall he pressed a finger to his lips to remind the two women to keep to their regular work. Then, back to the wall, he moved forward toward the basement. Sam had scouted out the area beforehand; he knew exactly where Brimmer was going.

A sound to his left, glass and metal, in close proximity, caught Sam off guard and he dropped to his knees. The sound tinkled lightly again and Sam canted his head, eyes scrunched in question.

No one else was here but the two nurses, Brimmer and himself. What the hell…?

Crawling, Sam moved cautiously in the direction he’d last heard the sound. A small office was just to the right. The scuffling noise tinkled again and Sam crawled forward quickly, pressing himself against the half wall outside the entrance.

Slowly, he raised up enough to peek over the glass portion. Brimmer stood at an opened glass cabinet; small glass vials of varying sizes lined each shelf in neat rows. Brimmer inspected their labels and tucked a handful from a few rows into his pockets.

He made a quick grab at several wrapped syringes, those going into his other pocket. As he turned to leave, Sam dropped again and backed away swiftly into an adjacent exam room. When the footfalls died down along the hall, toward the basement, Sam dashed quickly to the front desk.

“Take an inventory of the drugs in your medicine cabinet when Brimmer leaves,” he whispered harshly. “He took some drugs and if he’s using them on my partner, I may need to know what they are. Can you do that?”

Mildred nodded, her features pale.

“Okay. You’ve got it from here, right? He’s just went into the basement, so when he comes back up, just send him on his way. Nice and easy like you did when he got here. Okay?”

Mildred nodded again. Kelsey behind her, her face turned toward the hall, like a sentry guarding for the enemy’s return, didn’t even blink.

Sam looked out the front, to the old pickup at the curb. It wasn’t the one he’d seen in the city traffic cam and he wanted to be sure. “That’s his car?”

“Yes,” Mildred answered, her voice shaky.

Sam turned back to her, “You’ve got to keep your cool. You’re nearly done, alright?” Mildred didn’t answer and Kelsey still had her head turned. “Mildred,” Sam barked in hushed, anxious tones.

“Right,” she put in hurriedly. “Keep cool.”

“I’ll be just outside in that black car across the street. Signal me if you need me, okay?”

She nodded. Sam patted her hands and ducked out into the night.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**Dean** had considered crawling, he really had. Especially given the outcome of his first few attempts to make it to his feet. The pain and agony that ripped through his body every time he went crashing down, ass first, back to the hay-strewn floor of the barn was something that he could really do without at this point.

Instead, he had sat, blinking back gray spots, breathless and panting, nothing but sheer determination and stubbornness keeping him conscious. Walking, he decided right there and then, seemed highly overrated.

That was when the traitorous part of his brain had first suggested the unthinkable: crawl.

“Nope.” He shook his head carefully. “No fucking way.” Glassy-eyed, he looked around the room only to find the cow staring at him with brown soulful eyes. Practically condemning. “Don’t take that tone of face with me.” Dean winced. “Great… I’m talking to a cow. Again.”

Not for all the tea in China, would he crawl. Not for the dozen or more blistering burns on the bottoms of his feet. Not for the multiple concussions or unknown drugs swimming through his veins, both making his head fuzzy and disconnected. Not even for what it had cost him to stand that first time. Nope.

Didn’t matter. None of it, he told himself.

Not the odd muscle spasm that still wracked his body with near crippling pain. Not the dozens of cuts that bastard Billy had sliced into his torso, many of which were deep enough to do more than trickle a little blood here and there. Not even the places on his chest where the viciously removed barbs left holes deep enough to see muscle tissue, or the eviscerated flesh down his spine where he’d slammed back on the barb-wrapped post numerous times—none of it mattered because…

“Winchesters. Do. Not. Crawl,” he gritted out angrily, then broke out into a fit of coughing that doubled him over, left him gasping on his side, until he could catch his breath and prop up on one elbow.

When he finally closed in on his goal, Dean sighed in relief. He hadn’t seen wrong, he hadn’t even been imagining it. It really was his stuff, dumped in a heap on the ground, covered in hay and filth.

As he squinted at the pile, things seemed to come into focus. His things were partially engulfed in shadow but, canting his head to the side, Dean could just make out a swatch of dark material. His own gray t-shirt.

A small grin spread over his face. "Yahtzee," he murmured.

Encouraged by the small find and the short distance to it, he moved faster. It was no longer crawling, it was more of a scoot, and less of a demeaning hands-and-knees thing. It was the preservation of strength because the intended target, one of his shirts — and oh god, was that a sock? — was just. Right. There.

In the end, Dean managed to find both socks, though no boots. "Fucker," he grunted.

It wasn't easy but he managed to force them on over bloodied flesh, and up, until they covered the torn skin of his ankles. There was a nice-sized goose egg where Bill had kicked him earlier, _the fucker_ , Dean repeated mentally.

Getting limbs to cooperate was a bitch, but after several grunts and groans the shirt was up and over his head, until the material covered his torso. It stuck in painfully to the open wounds on his chest and back, but like the socks, some protection was far better than none. Even if just the touch of it hurt like hell.

“Now,” he swiveled, searching the room, still sitting on his ass. “If I can just… ah!” His outer shirt, the button-down. It was close and from his seated position he reached it easily. The movement sent a sharper pain up his leg, huffing as he gathered the garment.

Dean sat and stared at the knife wound in his thigh. It oozed blood, not fast, but the more he moved. The more bloodflow increased. "Dammit," he muttered. Using his mouth in coordination with his still less than dextrous hands, he ripped the fabric in half.

Fingers fumbling, he managed to get half the shirt balled into a wad to cover the hole, and the other half he wrapped around to keep it in place. Sufficiently packing the wound. "Man..." he grumbled when he was done, breathless, "I liked that shirt too."

Out of his periphery he'd spotted his leather jacket. Easily recognizable, the item sat much further away, near an outer wall of the barn.

“Well, no use putting it off,” he huffed. Placing both palms on the ground, he got his socked feet under him and carefully came to a stand. Much to his surprise the pain was manageable, though he still found himself hobbling the last few yards to where his coat lay.

The absence of his boots was still an issue and he glared down at his feet. Much as he'd not relished putting any sort of shoes on, walking around barefoot was too painful to even consider. But the boots were nowhere in sight and for now, the socks would have to suffice. They'd offer at least a modicum of protection from the dirt and grime.

Lifting the coat in one hand he carefully shifted first one arm, then the other until he was swallowed into the welcoming warmth of the leather and its thick lining. Much as he didn't appreciate the added weight on his wounds, he knew prolonged exposure to the cold would be far worse.

Dean didn't waste time, now that he was standing and walk—er—hobbling. What little energy he had, he needed to direct toward finding the kid and, if he was alive, getting them both out of there. Fast. Preferably before Bill came back… or after Dean found his gun.

Glancing at the barn's main entrance, he clenched his jaw. Much as Dean believed Bill was gone and time was of the essence, every instinct in him screamed caution. Walking out the main entrance, with that big-ass halogen light announcing his escape to the entire county, didn't exactly seem the best course of action.

Turning around, Dean looked for a different, less visible way out. His gaze caught on a stall window and deciding for a quick glance at the world outside, he stowed away any discomfort and moved quietly toward it.

He peered out the opening. The rest of the place was exactly as he had imagined it to be; a two-story, creepy-as-hell farmhouse lay about fifteen yards off, directly across from the barn. Quickly, he noted the full, bright moon and how it offered enough light to see an old corn silo just to the left, its tall structure standing like a silent silhouette outlined against the cold night sky.

Between the silo and the house, Dean felt pretty sure that the house was the more likely place to stash the kid. Most houses this far north had basements and whether concrete or hard-packed soil, escape from one would be pretty difficult.

Now to find a more covert exit from the barn, find the kid and get gone.

Dean moved away from the window, skirting the edges of the light that shone from the bare bulb that hovered over the table. That cart where Perv had kept his 'toys,' and the post where Dean had been dealt more physical pain than he'd ever known possible.

A back door of some kind would work and he squinted into the darker shadows of the barn, searching. The shadows were too deep so he stayed close to the wall and felt his way along, one shoulder skimming against the decrepit wood, both for support and for any tactile discovery he might make. If he didn't see it, he'd surely bump against it.

Forcing himself to take his time, he'd just neared the back of the barn when a board gave easily against his shoulder. Dean had to rock back to keep from falling and he drew to a halt and placed his hands against the boards.

It wasn't exactly a door, but more of a rotted piece of wood. The wide plank swung left, its rusted nail attaching it to the frame having long since loosened its hold. Dean pressed the board as far as he could to the left and grunted his approval.

"Perfect," he murmured. It would be a tight fit but the boards on either side of it weren't all that healthy, so if push came to shove, they should break easily.

Bending his knees, Dean stooped and, leading with his right shoulder, squeezed through the opening. When his back scraped against the boards, he found himself insanely glad he'd put on the thick coat. Before they splintered and broke, the pressure on his chest and back alone hurt like a bitch.

Once outside, Dean stilled, keeping himself against the outer wall of the barn long enough to orient himself.

Dean approached the farmhouse at an angle, muttering more than his fair share of curses. Lost in pain and his own determination, he'd nearly missed the sound before it filtered into his clouded mind. When it did, he held still for a minute, canted his head and listened.

There was nothing to hear now, the night sounds full of only cicadas and rustling wind, and yet every hair on the back of his neck was raised. There was a car parked near the house, but enough tire tracks on the ground to tell Dean that the old rust bucket sitting near the door wasn’t Bill’s sole means of transportation. Every instinct screamed caution and 'wrong wrong wrong' but dammit, there was nothing there.

In a gait that was far from his usual smoothness, Dean crossed the yard quickly and came to stand at the concrete stairs that led to the front door. Pausing, he glanced up, breath frozen in his chest.

Dean blinked. For just a second he could've sworn he saw someone at the window, a shadowy figure that vanished almost as soon as he glanced up. Almost like a gh— no, this wasn't a supernatural thing. There was nothing in that upstairs window.

Dean shook his head. Fucking concussion.

“Keep it together, Dean,”he murmured and placed a foot on the first step. Without warning a sudden chill split down his spine, rocking him violently from head to toe. It was nothing like the post-electrocution spasms he'd endured hours ago.

Dean shrugged it off. “Jesus,” he husked breathlessly. “Place gives me the creeps, way too literally.” His head was all wonky, he argued, that's all it was so he climbed the rest of the steps and reached for the front door, pausing only to take a deep breath. He had no weapon, no idea who might be in the house, or if this was even the place where Perv had stashed the kid.

After a moment's hesitation, Dean relented. “Fuck it,” he murmured angrily at himself. Following his instincts had become second nature to him, had kept him, and others, alive on more than one occasion. So what if they'd been a little off on this hunt, well more of a not-hunt, as it turned out.

Still, no matter how fucked up his head was at the moment, Dean knew his instincts were still the best thing going. Still dependable. “Getting fucking paranoid Dean,” he murmured and gripped the door knob.

The door opened easily enough, though the sound it made in the process was like something straight out of a Hitchcock movie. The screech wasn't particularly loud but against the stillness of the air and quietness of the room, it was deafening.

Grimacing at the sound, Dean stepped across the threshold and instantly realized the one single benefit of not having his boots.

Outside, between the barn and the house, where every sharp rock and poky stick had skewered his burnt feet, he'd muttered more than his fair share of expletives. even made up a few new ones. But in there? In a house so old the floorboards practically creaked just from looking at them, the absence of his boots turned out to be a good thing. It made for a quieter, almost soundless trek through the aged structure.

Between the light over the barn and the full moon shining through the windows, visibility in the house wasn't too bad. Stopping for a moment he took in the interior with wide searching eyes, ready for anything.

First thing he noticed was the copious cobwebs—hell, cobwebs on _top_ of cobwebs. Like little spider condos and hell, even some of those were dilapidated. Stilled, Dean took it all in, getting a lay of the land before he moved too deeply inside. Listening for any sound that was misplaced.

Just inside the front door and directly ahead was a massive staircase. Most of the rungs were broken and many of the steps were missing boards, but for the most part it was intact and would probably sustain his weight if he had to traverse them. He hoped he wouldn’t have to.

A large living area, furniture that had seen better days—er decades—lay to his right, with another room that could be seen beyond that one. An old roll-top desk sat against one wall, papers scattered everywhere; an office maybe.

"Okay," Dean murmured to himself, eyeing the interior. "If I were a psychotic killer, fond of dark places to kill in, where would I keep my next—" A Basement. "Of course," he said nearly slapping a palm to his forehead, but lacked the strength.

Dismissing the other rooms, and the rickety stairs leading up, he looked for what might pass as the kitchen. It was typical of the area for basements to be accessed from the kitchen, he only hoped the goddamn farm didn't have a storm cellar somewhere away from the house.

"One thing at a time, Dean. One thing at a time," he whispered, eyes wide, swiveling left and right, searching.

The glint of moonlight over metal caught Dean’s attention and he drew up short. A crooked table stood just next to the stairs and on it, something familiar. A silver plated Colt 1911— _his_ silver plated Colt 1911—sat on top of it, like a piece of jewelry on display, its normally shiny exterior somewhat dulled by dirt and shadows.

“Ah, thank God,” Dean's voice scratched out into the cold air. Carefully, he picked it up, wiping it on his jeans to get rid of some of the dirt, then checked the clip. It was full. “Finally,” he muttered, coughing into the crook of one arm, “something’s going right tonight.”

Feeling even less naked now, even with the rest of his clothes on—minus his boots, _fucker..._ —Dean gripped the gun tightly and moved about to search the rest of the house.

There was an arched entry to his left and it appeared to lead to what was probably a dining room of some sort. Inside that room, a light fixture that had seen better days hung precariously from the ceiling, big and spooky enough to look like something straight from _The Phantom of the Opera_. Wallpaper, faded and peeling, clung precariously to the walls and numerous holes dotted the aged drywall, giving it the appearance that some crazy woodpecker had at some point found refuge in the old house.

Beyond that room, it was the next space that garnered Dean's attention.

Light streamed in from somewhere outside, bathing the room in a blue glow; trapped in the beam, the cracked countertops, old stove and an old model refrigerator seemed frozen, cold. Stopped in time, it was a kitchen, straight from the 70s. If this house was stereotypical of the era, the door to the basement would be in there somewhere.

As he neared the entrance, Dean's mind was so busy working on just how they'd get out of here and how far away help might be that he didn't hear the rush of air and intake of breath until it was nearly too late.

Dean jumped back, but the movement was slow and clumsy.

Something hard struck a glancing blow to the side of his head. Gun hand pulled in, the downward moving object ricocheted off his right shoulder then stopped.

“Son of a...,” Dean stumbled but leveled his gun, eyes searching furiously for a target.

“Wait!” a small panicked voice whispered back. “Don't shoot!”

“Just don't—” Dean blinked as thick fluid dripped down his head to cloud his right eye. Even though some part of his mind told him the voice was young, he was in no hurry to concede trust.

Gripping the gun tighter, getting it steadier, he wiped the blood from his eye and grimaced. “Don't fucking move.”

“I won’t,” a voice responded meekly. It was anxious and scared. “But mister—Dean, we gotta go.”

Dean stared confused at the fuzzy image. "What?"

Blinking several times, Dean’s vision cleared allowing him a better look at his assailant.

It was a kid. More importantly, it was _the_ kid from town. Arms high, a thick board clutched tightly in one scrawny hand, though at Dean's stare, it dropped lithely from his hands to clatter to the floor. The kid stood in a splotch of light shining in through the kitchen window, small frame trembling violently.

“You’re the—the,” he coughed, chest constricting, nearly doubling him over. “The kid Bill kidnapped.” Then his mind clicked. “Wait. How'd you know my name?”

"I—I heard." The boy cast an anxious look around, then turned back to Dean, shuffling in hesitation, face drawn. Dean sensed this wasn't going to be good.

"You heard, what exactly?" Dean encouraged.

"I heard Billy... and you, when he..." It was clear the words were not what he wanted to say, "in the barn..."

Dean felt his face drain of color. "Oh." The kid had heard him loosing his shit. "Terrific," he muttered awkwardly.

"I heard him say your name a few times, that's all," he lied.

Dean looked at the kid, shook his head. "Doesn't matter," he offered. "So how'd you get free?"

The boy was casting anxious looks around the room. “Billy's Dad. He helped me, broke the chain,” he said. Hands fisting nervously at his side he practically whined, “So, can we go now?” He didn't wait for an answer, but moved to go around, heading for the front door.

“Hang on a second.” Dean snaked out a hand and grabbed the boy's upper arm. It was on the tip of Dean's tongue to ask about 'Billy's dad' but touching the boy, Dean noted how he was trembling, saw his head jerking visibly. Saw the length of chain still dangling from his right wrist, heard it jingle with the tiny shudders.

"Please...?" The boy was crying.

Dean sighed. Taking off his coat he wrapped it around the small shoulders. “It’s big but it should help. So, you know my name, what's yours? Can't go around calling you 'kid' all night.”

The boy nodded. “Jeremy.” It was clear from his face that he really wanted to say no to the coat-offer, but the need for warmth easily overtook pride and he sank into the oversized coat, face lax.

“Okay, Jeremy. So, tell me again," Dean folded his arms over his chest, the gun in his right hand peeking out beneath his elbow. "Perv — I mean — Billy's dad helped you escape.” He rubbed at his forehead, feeling that headache come back. “So… you're saying that there's someone else in here?”

Wasn't this just their luck? More than one crazy to deal with; Bill wasn't working alone, even if his partner — his dad — seemed to be having second thoughts about his fuck-wad son.

“Yeah, Billy’s dad and,” Jeremy’s eyes rolled upward to indicate the second floor of the house. “Margret.”

Dean canted his head—had he heard right? “Margret?”

“Billy's momma... she's evil.” The reminder sent the boy into a clear state of panic. “Look, Billy’s dad, when he set me free, he said to run. Said to leave. We gotta go now!” He was backing toward the front door.

“Just—” Dean grabbed the boy's arm, lost inside his leather jacket. “Hang on a second. I get that you’re scared, but if Billy's working with someone, for all we know, they could be standing outside, waiting for us. You gotta tell me exactly where they are.”

“Jeezus, I don’t know. I just got out of that basement when I heard you come in. Thought you might be her—or Billy."

Dean rubbed a frustrated hand down his face. Much as he didn't want to accuse the kid of lying, he wanted to be sure the earlier encounter hadn't been just panic-attacked and hallucinated. “So you met Billy's dad, but this—Margret, did you actually see her?”

A quick shake of his head answered. “But I heard her when I was in the basement. When she yelled at Hal.”

“Hal?”

“Billy's dad.”

“Naturally.” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose where that damnable ache was growing sharper by the minute.

“Geeze, you’re not following real well. I didn’t hit you that hard, did I?”

“No,” Dean lied, “I just find it hard to be on first name basis with psychos who are trying to, you know, kill me. So,” he tried again, “any chance that what you heard was actually a TV or radio?”

“No, I'm not some baby who can't tell the difference between what's real and what's not. I know what I heard and what I saw.”

“Alright, alright, I'm just trying to be absolutely sure.” Dean glanced around. "So, you said Hal told you Margret was upstairs?”

"Yes," the boy nodded but looked frustrated, "Look, I really don't wanna be here anymore." He motioned toward the front door, movements jittery, hopping from foot to foot. “Can we go now?”

“Yeah,” Dean turned the boy toward the front door and placed a hand to the small of his back, giving a gentle but insistent push toward the exit. “God, Sam's gotta be climbing the walls by—”

A board creaked somewhere behind them and they both froze. The laughter that followed, was definitely feminine and utterly insane. It sent Dean's flesh crawling.

"It's her," Jeremy whispered, his voice like thin glass about to break.

Dean made the next decision quickly. Putting one hand to Jeremy's back he moved him quickly as he could limp to the front door of the house. "Need you to do me a favor," he said opening the door.

Confused, Jeremy spun on him. "L-like what?" he asked throwing his hands out to the side.

Dean put a hand to his chest and less gently he shoved the boy across the threshold, placing him outside. Dean cut him off. “Wait here. I'm just going to check it out.”

“No. Let’s just go!”

Cutting him off, Dean shut the door in his face, the deadbolt seemed to work and he threw it. “Run if you see Billy's car, Jeremy. I'm just going to check things out.”

“No shit I'm gonna run,” Jeremy shouted and kicked at the door, frustration and panic obvious in his voice. The kid sounded torn between running and staying to help. Dean really hoped he'd run. “I don't wanna be out here alone...”

That plaintive, broken voice was nearly Dean's undoing. But things weren't adding up and this might be his only chance to piece it together. Not to mention, his feet weren't exactly in good shape, so the boy would likely get further without him if it came right down to it.

“Just... sit tight," Dean called back. "I've got a plan," he lied. Casting a dubious gaze at the stairs, knowing full well it led to the noise they'd just heard. Knowing too that going up there was probably a bad idea, and really... what was he going to do?

"What are you going to do?" Jeremy repeated, shouting through the door.

"Survive," Dean murmured, "I hope."

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)


	10. Chapter 10

  
  [ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**Sam** let the Impala roll to a stop in the middle of the road. The engine rumbled, shaking the car slightly as he looked straight ahead.

Just moments ago Brimmer's gold Sedan, had been right. There. Sam hadn't let more than a gentle rise in the road get between them, and even then, he'd had him in sight before the Impala crested.

Now, he wasn't so fortunate. An hour into their drive, a bend in the road and three rises later, and Brimmer's car was nowhere in sight.

"Dammit!" Sam slammed the palm of one hand hard against the steering wheel.

Like any tail, Sam had to keep enough distance between himself and his prey so that he wouldn’t tip him off, while never allowing for too much distance to settle between them. That had been the easy part. The difficulty had occurred when they’d left the city limits further and further behind.

Driving a car that wasn’t exactly inconspicuous, on a nearly deserted road, in the middle of the night, Sam had been forced to put more and more space between them. More than he was comfortable with.

Still he felt he'd maintained adequate distance and speed. They were making good time and nothing had seemed amiss. Brimmer had simply vanished.

Just as soon as Sam had realized he'd lost him, he’d backed up. Retraced his route. He'd taken it slow, scouring every break in the corn and wheat fields along the way. There were no turnoffs, no private drives, no nothing. Just... no Brimmer.

Just when Sam was ready to try retracing his steps one more time, a car swerved onto the road ahead. The back fishtailed from where it slid through loose gravel on the shoulder before finding purchase on the pavement.

"Huh." Sam accelerated, the Impala surging forward, her growl getting louder as her speed picked up. "Where are you going?"

Sam no sooner caught up with the vehicle when it turned off the road. Coming alongside that spot, Sam saw the lights before he saw the building. 'Kwik-e-Trip, Gas, Beer and Wine, Open 24-7'.

Careful not to attract too much attention to himself, Sam turned slowly into the gravel lot and let the car coast up to stop in front of the store, leaving some distance between him and the car he'd followed, now parked to the right.

It was a pickup, old model. The driver's side opened and a man of about twenty-five nearly fell out, a girl right behind him, tumbling clumsily to waver drunkenly next to him. Together they tripped and stumbled up the curb and the girl squealed when her ankle turned, but the sound soon turned into a fit of giggles.

The man laughed but held one finger over his lips, loudly shushing her. The girl mimicked his motions, though it was clear she didn't take it seriously, only offering a lopsided curtsey as he opened the door to let her in.

The man behind the counter, older, maybe in his late thirties, watched the couple move sloppily into the store; his face held a barely concealed annoyance at the pair's arrival.

Sam was coming up empty in his search for the farm, and the clock was ticking on Dean's life, he felt it to his core. While he'd rather not stir up the locals, his options to do otherwise, were quickly running low.

Making up his mind Sam pulled the door handle and hopped out of the Impala. In only a few long strides, he entered the store and approached the counter, ignoring the odd look from the clerk.

“Excuse me,” he stepped purposefully over to the employee. “I'm looking for the Brimmer farm. Ever heard of it?” Sam glanced at his name-tag, “Chet?”

The older man set down a box he'd been unloading and ambled over to the counter, rubbing his chin. Chet thought for a moment. “Brimmer ya say?”

There was an indelicate snort behind him and Sam turned. The drunken woman was giggling, eyeing both of them. "You mean the ol' haunted farmhouse out on 121? You lookin' t' get your freak on or something?"

The man who'd come in with her sidled up behind the girl, one arm hooking possessively around her waist, the other holding a twelve pack. “Wassup baby?”

She leaned into him, though Sam hazarded to guess that it was more to remain upright than it was a show of affection. "Guy's lookin’ fer that ol’ ghost house—the Brimmers’ place." Her eyes brightened with an idea. "Hey, Matt," and she turned in his arms, "let’s go with 'im. Let's find us a ghost."

Sam was just about to speak when Chet chimed in from behind the counter.

"No one's going ghost huntin', tonight or any other night." Chet cast a disparaging glace at the wobbling couple and sighed. "Go on home, Matt." He moved around the counter and took the case of beer. "I think you've had more'n enough for one night."

"Aw, c'mon, Chet," Matt huffed. "We was gonna go straight home and drink it there. I promise."

Chet sniffed the pair and stepped back, waving at the air. "Jesus, no you weren't. Both of ya, head to my office, I'll give you a ride home m'self."

"That ain't fair," Matt whined.

"Son, life ain't fair, but I own this store and I decide who I sell to and who I don't, now get," he finished giving Matt a lighthearted kick in the behind. "And stay back there 'til I can get someone in to take over. "Dumb-ass kids."

The couple offered no further argument, just shuffled—and Sam could swear he heard giggling and shushing—toward the back of the store before disappearing behind a swinging metal door.

Before Chet could turn to address him, Sam had his badge out and at eye-level of the store owner. "I'm with the FBI and I've got to find that farmhouse. It's a matter of life and death."

Chet's head rocked back a little as he stared at the badge. "Life or death?"

Sam nodded eagerly. "Please..."

"Son, what would the Feds want with some ol' run down farmhouse?" Chet asked a little shocked. "I mean, all those stories about ghosts out there, they're just stories. This place don't get a whole lot of excitement so I think the young'uns just like makin' stuff up half the time."

"Do you or don't you know where the farmhouse is?" Sam asked through gritted teeth.

In the face of Sam's apparent frustration and anger, Chet's eyes flared as he took a step back. "Well," he rubbed the back of his neck as he thought, "no one really knows where it is. No one really goes there, 'cept Billy, but that's only once a year."

"Has Billy been by here tonight?"  
Sam turned, but Chet only shook his head. "Nope."

Sam sighed. This was beginning to fizzle out on him; his mind worked furiously. "The girl—"

"Abby."

"She said it's on 121?"

Chet huffed. "Mister, that's 121 right there," he said hooking a thumb out the store windows. "It runs for five counties, north and south. There's got to be over five hundred old farmhouses all around it. I'm sorry."

"A-actually?" A familiar voice started, hesitantly. "I've been there."

Sam spun. Matt, the same kid who'd wobbled in drunk moments ago, stood very straight, and looking not so drunk. Sam ignored the sound of Chet's cursing quietly behind him and stalked over to Matt to loom imposingly over him. "When?"

"Um well," Matt scratched his head, "that's the thing. It was at night. It was a year ago, and I'm really not from around here, so I'm—"

"And he's drunk," Chet reminded.

Sam ignored the reminder and grabbed the younger man's arms. "Think hard, Matt," he said, leaning in closer. Matt's head knocked back and his eyes widened. Faced with Sam's intimidating size, the man seemed to sober quickly. "One twenty one runs north and south from this store, so, can you at least remember if you went right or left?"

The younger man's eyes rolled upward and for a moment Sam wasn't sure if he was thinking or if he was going to pass out. "I'm pretty sure," he started again, "it was further south—"

Sam didn't wait for more. He was outside and at the Impala before he heard Matt call after him. He'd passed it. Somehow, he'd driven right past it.

Behind the driver's seat, Sam no sooner had the engine rumbling than he had it in reverse. Gravel flew as he punched the accelerator and backed away from the store. Hand on the gear to put it in drive when Matt came running toward the front of the car, arms waving. Annoyed but curious Sam rolled down the window.

"Listen," Matt breathed heavily, leaning his hands against the driver's side door, "I don't buy all that ghost hogwash, or at least, I didn't used to, but I've talked to folks—good folks—who've seen shit happen out at that farm."

"Then why'd you tell those others in there—"

"'Cause. The sooner that story dies, the better. Let the dead have that place."

“What dead?” Sam asked. As far as he could tell, no one had ever associated that place with the murdered kids. “What do you know about that place, Matt?”

The young man shuffled on his feet, hand to the back of his neck, looking nervously in between Sam and his girlfriend who stood, leaning her back against the store front window.

“Like I said… just rumors man.”

Sam gripped the steering wheel, stopping himself from snapping at the younger man. “That your car over there, Matt? The one whose zigs and zags I was following for half a mile?” he said, the menace in his voice clear enough for even the inebriate to understand.

Matt paled. Just like Sam thought. Not so drunk after all.

“Folks say that Billy’s old man and that hag mother of his are still around. You know…” Matt started, his voice dropping to a whisper that the Impala’s engine almost drowned. “Haunting the place.”

“I thought Margret died in a car accident.”

“Margret and Hal, her husband… yeah, that’s what Billy told everyone,” Matt confirmed, even if his face showed how little he bought the tale.

“But you didn’t believe him,” Sam said. A statement, one that he didn’t even need the young man to confirm. “What do you think really happened?”

Matt shook his head. “I don’t know man… this was all years ago,” he said, crouching lower to look Sam in the eyes. “But people talk, you know? 'Specially when neither Margret nor Hal knew how to drive… especially when no one ever saw their bodies.”

Sam felt the hairs at the back of his neck prickle. "Thanks Matt," he managed with a forced smile. “You were a real help… now, take Chet's advice and don’t get behind the wheel.”

Matt beamed, head bobbing up and down like a kid who’d just been offered candy, going back to his girlfriend.

"Shit," Sam hissed as soon as Matt was out of earshot. He slammed his foot on the gas pedal.

Dean had been right all along. This was their kind of gig. It just wasn't a shape shifter.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**A** muscle twitched in Dean's clenched jaw as he half padded, half limped quietly across the old wood floor. The odd sound and creepy-as-hell laugh had come from behind the closed door just off what he thought of as a sitting room to the right.

The sound, definitely female, lent credence to Jeremy's claim that not only was there a man — well, two men, thought Dean, barley considered Perv a man — and a woman in here. Bill's parents.

Dean's gaze skipped curiously around the interior, noting the dirt, dust, papers and layers of cobwebs. The place looked like a woman hadn’t set foot in it in ages. Then again, any woman who’d keep company with someone like Perv…

The fact that the kid was free and at this very moment on the other side of the front door, in relative safety, was enough for Dean to accept his escape story, enough to not doubt his claim that Bill’s dad had freed him. But a woman? Here? Seriously… what the hell was going on?

The gun, double palmed, safety off, pointing down but ready to use, was like an extension of his arms.

Not for the first time he wondered just how much of an excuse he would need to pull the trigger and put down one or all of these bastards. And wasn't that a thought; thinking of them as nothing more than a pack of rabid, raving dogs that needed 'putting down’.

In their combined years of hunting, the Winchesters had 'put down' many supernatural beings; ghosts, monsters, spirits and demons. Humans though? Despite the things these Brimmers had done, Dean wasn't so sure he'd be able to kill any of them in cold blood.

Once his boys had started hunting, John had instilled in them the sanctity of human life by way of their creed; hunting things, saving people. Emphasis on hunting 'things' and saving 'people' and while technically Bill and his psycho family were 'people,' Dean was willing to make an exception, see a little gray, where the Brimmers were concerned.

Yeah, Dean was pretty damn sure that whether he killed them or the cops took them, when this was over, he'd sleep just fine at night.

Dean shivered, but it wasn't from the cold. In fact, he could feel the rivulets of sweat pouring down his back and off the sides of his face, edging down his throat before disappearing under his collar.

If anything, he welcomed the absence of the outer layers. Jeremy had needed it far more than he. It was easy to tell given how his voice had stuttered in time with his constant trembles and how his teeth had clacked unceasingly.

The sound had been reminiscent of that time, in Flagstaff. It was the summer of '89 and Dean had 'borrowed' Riley Peters’ bike. Two clothes pins from Edna Picket’s line in the backyard and he'd clipped a playing card to the spokes on both the front and back tires then ridden as fast as he could. The faster he went, the louder the clacking. That had been awesome. Felt and sounded like he was on a real, honest-to-goodness motorcycle.

But no, despite being clothed only in jeans and the dual layered shirts, and despite the visual evidence of his own breath clouding out into the darkness indicating just how cold it was, Dean wasn't cold. Well, his toes, even with the socks, were a bit chilled.

Quiet or not, Dean still vowed that once this was over, he'd go back to the barn and look for those boots. They were new, goddammit, and no way he'd leave without them. Dean's watery brain snagged on an idea; the northwest corner of the barn... he hadn't had a chance to look there. He'd definitely look there afterward.

Dean rounded a corner to face the door from where the sounds had issued, but stumbled to a stop at the sight before him.

It took a moment for the sight of it to register, and for a moment he thought HE was hallucinating. Squinting he edged closer to the odd decoration strung across the corner of the room. Close enough to touch, he reached out with his free hand to strange little balls gazing blankly back at him.

'Gazing’ blankly back at him...

With an almost undignified yelp Dean snatched his hand back like it had been burned and retreated a step. Eyeballs. Strung up like tiny Christmas decorations adorning the corner.

Hundreds of them. Just... staring at him.

However they'd been preserved, Dean didn't know. Didn't _want_ to know.

“Guh.” Dean wiped his hand on his jeans, feeling disgusted at the mere thought of having almost touched them, his left hand tingling with crawling flesh at the near miss. “’Kay, that’s just gross.”

Another creaking sound froze him to the spot. This time it was followed by the creepy-assed whisper of a woman’s voice. “How nice of you to come to me," she hissed. “We need to have us a little... talk.”

Dean felt a shiver up his spine that had nothing to do with temperature. “Sure, why don't you just come out here and we'll talk.” Dean gripped the gun tighter, raising it at the door. “Gotta warn you though, I have a gun, so don't go doing anything stupid." He glanced at the eyeballs and added, “—er.”

“He always did have a thing for their eyes,” a female voice sliced into the silence. Behind him.

Dean spun. He was already unsteady, and the movement left him dizzy and uncoordinated. He stumbled back until his outstretched hand hooked on the back of an old, dusty recliner and came to a halt. Wide-eyed he gazed now at the owner of the voice Jeremy had mentioned.

There was a show Sam always loved to watch when they happened to find it in whatever dump-heap hotel they stayed in. _The Brady Bunch._ The woman standing before Dean now looked like the mom from that show, Carol. Only more…demented.

This version was more like Carol’s evil twin, some twenty years out of place. White blond hair that didn’t appear to have seen a comb in ages, stuck out ratty and tattered in a macabre frame around her face; her dress was torn and filthy, with dark stains that, to Dean’s knowing eye, looked suspiciously like blood.

Dean swallowed. “Lemme guess. You’re… Margret, right?” She angled her head at him, eyes practically glowing. “As in, Momma Brimmer? As in, queen bitch?”

Margret sneered. “And you,” she continued, her voice needling and edgy, “you’re the bastard who’s been messing with my son’s mind.”

Dean choked out a laugh and hooked a thumb over his shoulder to the string of eyeballs. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he was twisted up long before me, sister. In fact, I'm pretty sure you had first crack at that noggin' of his.”

“A momma’s bond with her son is sacred.” She stepped forward. Dean stepped back. “And you, you dare come between us?”

“Well, now, to be fa—” Dean’s heel caught on something and he stumbled, not daring to take his eyes from Bill’s psychotic parent. Using a nearby table, Dean pulled himself up. “Fair, I didn’t exactly come here willingly. So why don’t I just leave and let you two—”

“Oh no,” the demented Carol Brady said, blocking his path, head shaking. “You can’t leave now. Now, I clean up Billy’s mess. Again. Now,” she lowered her head, gazing at Dean through some creepy hooded gaze, “now you can finally die.”

Things happened so fast Dean had barely a chance to react.

Margret Brimmer, with only a tilt of her chin sent Dean flying backward. His feet dragged against the rotted floor until his spine collided with the nearest wall. The impact was lessened for lack of distance, but added pain to the torn flesh on his back and left him breathless.

“Son of a…,” Dean panted. Aside from everything else he’d been through, this realization left his mind spinning all the more. “You’re a gho—”

Before he could finish, Margret had thrown out one hand and the pressure increased. Air rushed from his lungs as he felt his sternum and ribs shift inward. Head back, Dean ground his teeth in agony. It felt like his chest was caving in.

“He’s _my_ little Billy. Mine!” she shrieked. “You can’t have him!”

What the hell was she talking about? “Lady,” Dean gritted out, eyes mere slits as he fought off the pain, “I don’t want him.”

“You're not special,” she sneered as her eyes raked over him. “Oh no, you’re nothing special.” Drawing her hand back some, the pressure decreased but Dean still couldn't move. "Not good enough for my sweet William."

“What?” Dean panted. “Listen, lady I—”

“Like that boy he brought into our home," she screeched venomously. "He wasn’t special either. Had to kill him too, all those years ago. Like you, he tried turning Billy against me.”

Her hand surged forward again. This time harder; the wall and various old nails pressed agonizingly into his already torn back. While the aged drywall crumbled and gave in easily, it hurt like hell. “Shit… what the hell… are you… talking about?”

Margret quickly shifted her hand up. It felt like the floor dropped away, but Dean soon realized he was the one moving. The ragged, bumpy wall clawed at the open wounds on his back as he was dragged excruciatingly upward.

When Dean’s head hit the ceiling things finally stopped. He took that moment to blink the fuzzy swirls from his vision. The vertigo made his stomach lurch and he breathed out hard to reign it in. The wall crumbled and he felt himself rise some more, inching further upward.

For all the threats and bodily harm that Dean had ever faced in his life, it was this very position, this being trapped against the ceiling, pinned like a butterfly under some fugly's gaze, that never failed to set his heart racing. The image of his mother, pinned to the ceiling, in this same position, slammed into his brain. Mouth open, blood coating her nightgown.

The pressure never let up. It increased by increments. "Who..." Dean started but let out a pained gasp. He was shoved into the corner, high above the ground where the walls met the ceiling. The ceiling crumbled down in front of his face and he coughed. "Who tried to turn Bill against you?”

Margret snarled. Jerked her chin and he was pressed in and up higher. The ceiling was bearing down on his skull and he had to tilt to one side to take some of the pain off his head. It was a mistake. Margret took up the slack quickly and he was inched higher until his neck angled painfully between the wall and ceiling.

"L-lady..." Dean gritted.

“That faggot Frankie, that’s who!” Margret spit the name out like soured milk then moved closer, stopping within a few feet of Dean’s position and glared up at him, eyes radiating heat and venom. “He’d no business corrupting my sweet, little Billy. Such a sweet young boy, my Billy is…”

Dean blinked. Confused at her sudden loss of focus, and what was with this 'little' Billy crap?

Earlier, she’d seemed so… what was that word Sam had used with that ghost in California? Senchinent? Sentim— Sensu— fuckit. She’d seemed more ‘with-it,’ well, for a ghost that is. Now, the more she talked, the less sense she made. Maybe it was as Sam had theorized; those more grounded in life, manage to hold onto it longer, even as an angry spirit.

“How did he corrupt your ‘ _little_ ’ Billy?” Jeeze, Dean wasn’t sure he was still talking about the same guy because Billy was anything but ‘little’; scrawny and short, sure, but little? Little implied innocence, implied young age… Whatever, so long as she talked and stopped trying to crush him, that was a-okay with him.

“I taught him how to love. I did!” she screamed, pounding on her own chest. “Night after night, I showed him! I warmed his bed first. I. Did!”

“Riiight.” Dean remembered all too well Billy’s declaration of the same thing back in the barn. “Lady, you give a whole new meaning to the term 'dysfunctional family.'”

“Frankie was a freak, a mockery of what love’s supposed to be. Of what _my_ love's supposed to be.” She looked away, clearly lost in the unpleasant memory, hearing none of Dean’s words. “He threw himself at my son. Lied to him, said he loved him.” She glared up at Dean again. “Made him do things that not even animals will do. And I caught them.”

“Ah,” Dean grimaced because that was abundantly clear. “You prejudiced old prune… you killed the kid because he was wooing your precious son?”

“Killed him.” The words were so casual, with little more concern than someone taking out the garbage. “Because he took what is mine. Taught Billy a lesson too. Made sure he knew how much of an animal Frankie was.”

Dean shuddered. "God I'm going to hate myself for asking this," he murmured, but couldn’t help the question, “How?”

“Made him watch it,” she provided with a rotten smile. “Made him listen to Frank squealing like a pig as we filleted his skin from his mousy little body.”

Dean swallowed the bile in his throat. “And the other kids since?”

“For betraying his Momma’s love,” she growled, as if Dean should know all this. A slow twisted grin spread across her face. “Serves him well to remember every year why Frankie died. Why they must continue to die.” Her grin grew impossibly wider. “And their eyes... the eyes are lovely.”

Dean shook his head. It was a feeble attempt what with the being crushed to the wall and the ceiling. “But, why skin the bodies?” he asked breathlessly.

Margret sniffed and stared mockingly at him a moment. “Not overly bright are you?”

“Hey, sister,” Dean shot back, clearly affronted, “you try getting knocked out repeatedly, drugged, cut, electrocuted, and burned then tell me how ‘bright’ you are.”

“Winter,” she said simply.

Dean blinked back. Waited for more, but it appeared that crazy-ghost Margret was done. “What, is this like an inkblot test where I say the next thing that comes to my mind?”

Margret huffed, like _he_ was the idiot. “Ground’s too frozen to dig graves and flesh stores far too much information, so, before dumping the body, we skinned them and burned the flesh to hide the evidence.” She grinned at a memory, “Just as we did with Frankie’s body. Me and Billy.”

This just never ceased to make Dean's stomach twist. “Well," he said through gritted teeth, "weren’t you just Den Mother of the Year.”

“Billy was sloppy at first.” Ignoring his comment, Margret looked toward the kitchen and said it almost as an afterthought. “Then he came to his senses and came here. To me. Running like a panicked rabbit back to Momma.”

“Yeah, I don’t think anyone'll ever accuse Billy of ‘coming to his senses,’ but you just keep on hoping.”

The smile that lighted her face sent another shiver down Dean’s spine. “I suggested he entomb the bodies in a false wall in the basement.” She applauded herself giddily, then added, “Then told Billy from now on, purge his guilt here, rather than in the city sewers.”

“Yeah,” Dean swallowed the bile that almost made an appearance. “Aren’t you just a proud momma.”

“Then you came along…,” her face grew dark. Murderous. “Turning him against his own Momma again.”

Dean felt dread creep back in, twist at his spine.

“Just like Frankie did.” She lifted her arm higher, ramming him into the seam between the ceiling and the wall. “Can’t have that again.”

As bad as being smashed against the wall had been, it was nothing compared to the out-of-control flight across the room he went on next. Airborne, the world rushed past as the hard wood of the staircase grew unfortunately closer.

Dean closed his eyes and braced for impact.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**William** Brimmer slowed to a near stop, then cutting the wheel to the right, accelerated carefully as he entered the private drive that would take him to his parents’ farm. Gravel crunched reassuringly beneath the tires of the old Crown Vic as the road began its slow tilt down, then angled right again.

In terms of privacy, the farm, with its sloping road that wound and twisted before one reached the homestead, was ideal. While it was a bitch in the winter, standing alone at the end of that dirt road, the house and barn, sitting at a lower elevation were as secluded as they came. The place was damn near impossible for the casual passerby to see, so unless you knew where to go, it was secluded.

Its location had been an ideal spot to purge his rage, appease his needs and right his thoughts before returning to the outside world.

The tiny glass vials clinked softly on the bumpy road but otherwise rested safely, tucked in the old shopping bag on the seat next to him. Soon, he'd have the company he wanted, too. Grown up company. Just like proper, normal people did.

The idea of this big man, the one with a face of a boy when he was asleep… this man — though was most definitely not a boy — freckles and full, lush mouth, all spread beneath him, bleeding under the edge of his knife, eyes glazing over from the combination of pain and the drug cocktail, left Billy with a sense of recklessness. Like that first kill...

Maybe this was what getting drunk was like. Or getting high. The image of what he had planned sent a twinge of both fear and excitement coursing through him. His foot pressed on the accelerator.

Billy cut a glance at the vital part of his plan; the drugs he'd swiped from the clinic. This big man would take a lot of drugs, he thought.

In his whole life he couldn't remember ever really wanting anything more. Well, that wasn't exactly true. He had wanted his Momma to stop touching him. He had wanted his drunken-ass father to sober up and stop her. Then at fourteen, he had wanted Frankie Jessup; kind, caring Frankie Jessup.

And he had wanted _that_ night to have never, ever happened. The night his secrets had been laid bare, along with his heart. The night Momma had take Frankie away from him, and effectively the only person he had or ever would want.

Blame and longing; love and insanity. They melted, twisting into one until it had become all Frankie's. On the small side, Frankie should have been stronger. It was that weakness that had led Momma to force Billy into killing him.

This time would be different. This one was stronger. Billy would have something for himself this time. Momma would have to accept that and she would have to accept Dean, or Billy would go away, just as he had planned before and never come back. Only this time, he would have Dean. Take Dean with him.

The road banked sharp left and as it did, a light up ahead caught his attention. He slammed on the breaks.

It was more than one light; in fact, it was several. At this point in the road he could tell it was coming from the house. Lights, flashing intermittently, dancing from window to window, from top floor to the bottom, bouncing from window to window. Momma was mad.

“Shit." Billy sat back and gunned it.

The car flung gravel in every direction as it fishtailed around each bend, but he made it to the farmyard in record time, slamming on the brakes until the car slid several yards into the space between the barn and house before coming to a stop.

A feeling of unease gripped his chest as he flung open the car door and ran—first to the barn— a sick feeling churning the pit of his stomach. There was only one person that could make his momma act like that.

The pole where he'd left Dean was empty. Only bloody zip-ties and barbed wire remained.

Billy didn't miss a beat; he was across the yard and up the porch steps in record time. Grasping the knob he flung the door open and rushed inside, only then realizing that the earlier sounds of destruction and wrath had stopped.

Inside the door, Billy stood frozen.

The house was eerily quiet.

Bathed once again in shadows cast from the exterior light, Billy stared at the mess before him. “M-momma?"

The place was a shambles, more so than usual. Nearly all the remaining rungs on the stair rail were smashed, and the dilapidated walls were pock-marked with several human-sized dents and holes. There were chunks of drywall missing from arched entries into the kitchen, dining room and sitting room, several of which had dark wet spots—Billy was sure that was blood.

A low groan emanated from his left. It was short and soft but Billy had caused enough of them to recognize who it belonged to.

The old sofa next to the piano suddenly moved. Another groan and a hand appeared over the top. It wavered a moment then bloodied fingers gripped the top tightly. There was a moment’s hesitation and then old wood creaked as it bore the weight of the person behind it levering upward.

There was more grunting and Dean's head appeared next, bloody, cut, covered with dirt, crumpled drywall and dust. Billy moved toward him.

“I suppose I should be mad."

Billy spun. Margret caught his eye only a moment, then slid her gaze back to Dean.

“But, the truth is..." she sidled quietly forward until she stood next to Billy, her eyes never once leaving Dean, who was practically draped over the old sofa to keep himself upright. "I haven't had this much fun in ages.”

“Momma I—”

“Don’t worry, baby,” Margret purred, the sound almost maternal. “We’ll do this one together, just like we did Frankie.” A hand reached up toward Billy’s face. “Just you and me, like old times.”

“No!” Billy snapped. Margret’s hand withdrew quickly, before it could make contact. “I changed my mind. I’m keeping him, Momma.”

“Really?” A lofty expression on her face, she angled a look over at Dean. “Not much to keep; he's all bent out of shape.”

“I like him better that way. Just… stop messing him up.” Billy’s voice grew louder with each word, with each look at Dean who was now staring bleary-eyed back at him.

“Oh, I’ve just barely started," she grinned, moving away from him, back towards Dean. The malicious light in her eyes turned rabid as she thrust a hand out that sent the prone man colliding with the wall once more. "Watch baby, he hurts so good..."

Billy didn’t get a chance to blink before Margret’s hand flung up. Dean started dragging up the wall once again, until he was just high enough for Billy to see.

Dean started gasping for air. On instinct, his hands flew up and grabbed uselessly at his throat. Then his face turned a most sickening color of blue and Billy could see the skin around his throat push inward.

"Momma,” Billy made to get between them. “Stop!"

“Enough!” Margret screamed. She threw out her other arm. Billy was flung back, spine slamming against a far wall with a teeth-jarring impact.

It wasn't a hard enough blow to knock him out, but it was enough to send air rushing out from his lungs. Much as he fought he could not break free of this invisible barrier.

“You know this must be done,” Margret shrilled. “You… you should have done it already! But you’re weak! Pathetic!” With a macabre twist of her head, an angle far wider than any human neck could pull without breaking, she looked at Dean again. “Now, I’ll have to do it for you.”

A flick of her hand once again sent Dean sailing through the air, this time landing in the middle of the dining room, crashing to the rickety table. The force coupled with his weight shattered the aged wood and Dean was left in a heap amongst the timber.

In a fit of helpless rage, Billy watched, fists balled. The old chandelier swayed overhead, creaking against the rusted chain.

“Don’t you ever forget the reason for your shame.” Margret turned her back on Dean and sauntered over to stand before her son. “Always so naive... always so gullible, my little boy.”

“Stop it,” Billy growled back.

“You let yourself be fooled by a pretty boy once... I won't let it happen again. Never again!" The lights in the room started firing, on and off, randomly all over the house. "This one's pain... it's so beautiful... but that's all it is! Now, just imagine how beautiful his death will be.”

"M-Marge, my dear?"

Billy couldn't have been more surprised. His Dad stood just at the top of the stairs, his voice soft and imploring.

Not that he was surprised by the man's supplicating, whimpering tone, those were pretty much par for the course. But the very fact he'd sought out his mother… Since the day Billy had first returned to the farm, when his mother had appeared to show him just how pathetic he was, his father had never set foot in the same place as she was. Not even once.

Not much had changed in Hal Brimmer. He was just as much a loser and coward in death as he'd been in life. He'd spent the last few years avoiding her, never seeking her out.

Until today.

"Not now, I'm busy." Her back to him, Margret dismissed him with a wave of one hand. "You pathetic excuse for a man."

Before Margret could take more than a few steps, she was swiped off her feet in a jumbled mix of sound, wind and light. Hal, arms holding her in a vice-like grip, rushed by, feet leaving the ground and pushing her up, into the air as if the laws of gravity did not apply to him.

Confused and scared Billy shrank back, blinking at the dust that the fast moving light kicked up.

There was shouting and screaming, crashing and breaking and soon, it died away. The two forms of Margret and Hal Brimmer evaporated through the wall into another room.

The dust hadn't settled yet when the pressure holding Billy suddenly released. Still dazed, he went to his knees as his feet hit the floor and there he stayed trying to figure out what had just happened.

Dean groaned and muttered under his breath something that sounded a lot like ‘fucking ghosts.’

Billy walked cautiously over to the pile of groaning timber and Dean.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**Sam** scanned the side of the road carefully, looking for any sign of a gravel drive, private entry, anything that might smell remotely of the Brimmer farm. Mindful of the road, his gaze shifted to it every so often, the Impala grumbling beneath him as he kept driving slowly.

“C’mon,” Sam murmured to himself, thumbs drumming nervously on the steering wheel. “Got to be here somewhere.”

But it wasn’t. There was nothing there, and when there was enough light to see in the dark, all it lit up was even less than nothing. Empty fields as far as the eye could see. Even with the full moon.

Engrossed in his search of the distant fields for signs of life, Sam missed when the car drifted lower, until gravel bumped the undercarriage. A quick cut of the wheel and Sam righted the Impala to the road quickly. His gaze returned to the moonlit surroundings, forcing his eyes to see something that simply was not there. An afterthought reminder that he should keep an eye on the road as well was quickly cut off by Sam’s heart jumping to his mouth.

“Shit!” Sam punched both feet to the brake. Hard. The tires screeched, rubber burned and the car grabbed at the road, fishtailing as it careened forward.

In the path of the Impala, a small pale figure stood. Wide, panicked eyes stared back through the windshield, face whitewashed in the headlights. Child-sized hands shot out in a useless attempt to deflect four tons of speeding steel, legs wide apart, bracing for impact.

It was a near thing, but the Impala managed to skid to a stop just in time.

Relieved and confused, Sam sat and stared at what he now realized was a child.

Awash in the beam of the headlights, Sam guessed he couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. Wide terrified eyes stared back at him, face pale and topped by dirty, disheveled blond hair. His small mouth hung open, agape, breath visible in the cold night air.

A heavy coat, far too large for his slight frame, nearly swallowed him whole. Even with that, the boy trembled violently.

“Help us!” he said breathlessly. He stumbled forward, until his hands poked out of the sleeves and rested, palms down on the hood. “P-please… call the cops. You g-gotta…”

Sam was out of the Impala before he finished the last word, one hand on the boy’s back. Even through the leather coat he felt him trembling and given the look on his face, it was either from cold or fear.

From that close, Sam fully recognized the jacket. “Where’d you get this?”

The boy jerked at his tone and if possible, his face went even whiter. “He—he gave it to me.”

Sam bent, grabbed the boy's shoulders and turned him so they were face to face. “Who? Was he a big guy, kinda like me but with short hair?"

“Yeah—I,” The boy's mouth opened and closed several times, eyes darting like he was thinking. Trying to remember. “You know Dean?"

Sam couldn't answer at first. He breathed out, ecstatic at the prospect of being one step closer to Dean. Finally. “How long ago?”

“W-what?” The boy started shaking his head. Clearly, he was frustrated at the questions and lack of attention to his insistence that Sam call the cops. "Mister, if you know Dean, pleeeeease, they're gonna k-k-kill him!"

“Okay, look,” Sam tried. He had to back off a little, try a different tack. “I’m gonna help, just—” He knelt in the road, trying for less imposing. “The guy who gave you this coat, Dean. He's my brother.”

Only after a moment of hesitation did the boy nod. “He—he said to run if anything went wrong. I...I didn’t run right away, when Billy came back. I hid. B-bu when the house started screaming— _she_ started screaming and the lights were flashing, I could see from outside and-and the crashing....”

The words were rushing out like a dam that had burst and Sam’s brow furrowed at the content—lights flashing… her? Ghost. Margret’s ghost?

Hoping to get more details Sam took a hard look at the kid—and hesitated; tears were streaming down his cheeks, the trembling had increased and his lips were nearly blue. It was clear he was about to rattle to pieces or freeze to death, whichever came first.

“Whoa, okay, just...” Sam interrupted, not at all sure what instinct led him to do it but next thing he knew the kid was in his arms, clinging to the comfort he offered. "Just calm down.”

Eager as he was to get moving, Sam knew this boy's tenuous grasp on his emotions would mean the difference between life and death for Dean. He needed him functioning, firing on most of his cylinders.

Bearing that in mind, with the boy still pressed against him he asked, "What's your name?"

“Jeremy,” he sniffled, muffled against Sam's collar.

“Alright, Jeremy, let’s get you in the car, get warm and we'll work this thing out, okay?” The boy nodded, Sam felt it against his shoulder. “Can you walk or do I need to carry you?” Sam noticed he wasn’t wearing any shoes.

“I-I can w-walk.” It was more a whimper than a reply, but he pulled away, wet eyes anxious again. “But we gotta hurry. Or—or she’ll kill him. Or Billy will.”

“But he was alive when you left?” Billy nodded. “Alright, well, I know my brother; if I go in there without a plan, I’ll do more harm than good and he’ll end up kicking my ass for it. You get in the car and I’ll grab a blanket out of the trunk for you. Okay?”

Jeremy nodded again and Sam turned him gently, one hand to his shoulder in case he fell over or stumbled. The passenger side door creaked and the kid dropped with a sigh of exhausted relief into the seat. Sam had no sooner closed the door then he was sprinting to the trunk, grabbing a large old blanket, a bottle of water and a shotgun. Stuffing several salt rounds into his pocket, Sam slammed the trunk and moved to the driver's side.

Inside the car, he wrapped the boy in the blanket, gave him the water and watched as he drank it in nearly one swallow. Much as he wanted to push, Sam tamped down his own sense of urgency and waited for the kid to step a few notches back from going into shock.

“Feel better?” Sam asked when the bottle moved away from the boy’s mouth.

“Yeah.” Some kind of recognition flashed in Jeremy's eyes and he stared at Sam. “Dean said something about Sam climbing the walls… are you Sam?”

“Yeah, I’ve been searching for my brother since yesterday morning.” Sam gazed intensely at the boy. “Can you take me to the farm, Jeremy?”

The boy’s eyes trailed down to the shotgun in Sam’s lap. “Wh-what are you gonna do with that?”

“Whatever I have to.” Sam hadn't wanted to scare the boy, but he was anxious to get moving. “Now… in order to help him, I gotta find him first.”

“You? No cops?”

“I don't think there's time." Sam amped up the intensity, hoping the boy would connect. “But, I can't do this without you.”

The boy’s eyes widened. "No, I—"

"I just need you to help me find the farm. You don’t even have to get out of the car once we get there, okay? Can you do that?"

“I—I think...,” short for his age, Jeremy had to crane his neck high and lever his body up to see over the dash. “I think so...” Staring straight ahead a moment, he finally said, “Just--keep going, slow. I’ll tell you when to turn.”

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**Dean** groaned, waking to a world of black and confusion. And pain. God, he was really getting tired of waking, and blackness, and confusion, and pain.

And floors. Dean was really beginning to hate floors. And maybe the ground.

It was warm, too warm and when Dean tried to move he understood why. A weight seemed to cover him, pressing him down and it wasn't just the weight. It was the air too. It was thick under the cocoon of heaviness, the air was laden with dust that filled his lungs, it tickled his throat and he couldn't hold back the coughs that erupted.

Then it hurt. Everywhere. Everything. It all hurt.

The coughing had been a spectacularly bad idea. Agony shot all along his ribcage. And as much as he wanted to just lay there and try to figure things out, something in his head was screaming him to get moving.

It hurt everywhere. Everything.

Still, that instinct, that damned voice wouldn't shut the fuck up. It warred with the little hammers beating in his skull and against his selfish desires he found himself obeying the voice and flipping the bird to the hammers.

Dean shoved forward, even if just that little movement left his back screaming in pain. But he was determined, and pushed one hand up, against the weight.

Dust clouded his lungs, made it hard to breath and when his coughed to relieve the weight of it, his ribs screamed in agony. Dirt and drywall, clouded his lungs. When he tried for a deeper breath it sent a coughing spasm echoing through his chest.

"You..." a familiar voice said. "You're alive?"

Dean wasn't sure why yet, but the sound of that voice sent a tremor of warning down his spine. Sent the voice screaming louder in his mind. Despite the fact that the owner of that voice was now pushing the rubble away from him, Dean dreaded the moment he would be free.

Lifting his head took more effort than it should have, but Dean managed. The owner of the familiar voice swam into view. Bill. Everything rushed back to him in startling clarity.

No," Dean reached up with one blood-covered hand and grabbed Bill's lapel and pulled him down. "No thanks to Momma," he said pushing up on the other hand and rolling to his side, jaw tight with pain.

"But…," the other man whispered. "She killed you, Frankie."

The words, as much as the tone, brought Dean's mind skittering to a halt. "Wha—," he started then stopped, brow furrowed in confusion. He took a good, long look at Perv.

In the barn, the guy had been cold, emotionless and hell-bent on introducing Dean to the variety of ways a man could know pain. The same 'Perv' or Bill, who had admitted to killing more than twelve kids without remorse, eyes glittering with pride at what he had done. The man before him now, wasn't that Perv, wasn't Bill.

This was _Billy_. Confused, barely a teen, lost, fearful and uncertain fourteen-year-old Billy. Something had flipped in him, maybe seeing Momma try to kill Dean — and getting damn close — and how it conflicted with his determination to have something for himself. Maybe in the same way he had wanted to keep Frankie...

 _Great,_ Dean thought, _I get split-personality-psycho Sybil, who can't decide if he wants to cuddle or kill me, and a bat-shit crazy killing momma spirit. Like I don't got enough problems for one day._

Well, fine. Dean would play the role of Frankie for as long as it took to get him out of this house. After that, he'd be hard pressed not to kill Bill when he got the chance. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the fact that the simple action of breathing was leaving him dizzy and exhausted, Dean would have ended him right that second.

"She killed me?" Dean breathed out, grimacing at the pain in his side. "Well, guess we’re all just one big happy party of ghosts then."

That seemed to be explanation enough for Billy. "Momma's mad, Frankie," he whispered anxiously. "We gotta go. Now." Grabbing Dean's upper arm he pulled him quickly to a sitting position.

"Oh, shit...," Dean gasped painfully. Neither the motion nor the new orientation set well with Dean's condition and he nearly hurled from the pain of it. "Wait... wait. Just... a sec."

Billy reluctantly helped him sit back. "We don't have a second."

"Dude, she'll be on us before we get to the door," Dean explained, face pinched. Settled on his back and slightly elevated, the pressure on his ribs was nearly bearable. "So we better take a second and figure this out."

"You're right." Billy seemed to calm a moment but a crashing sound upstairs drew both of their gazes toward the staircase. The angry sounds were growing more and more frequent. "She knows; she always knows." The sound of defeat in his hollowed voice. "And she’s strong. Too strong for me."

That was the last thing Dean needed to hear: the sound of his only help giving up. Thinking fast, he realized, however, that this might be the inroad he needed.

It wasn't lost on Dean either that the sounds of Momma and Daddy's domestic supernatural dispute, were dying down. No matter who came out on top, and he was betting it would be Momma, they were running out of time.

"She's not strong, or powerful," Dean said anxiously. He grabbed Billy's collar and pulled him back to look at him. "She's evil and most important of all, she’s fucking dead! Now… you wanna help me or not?"

"I—I dunno..." Billy was letting fear take him over, back him up. "If I go against her, she'll be mad."

"Seriously?" Dean yanked on his collar. Hard. "She treats you like you're her property. Keeps you from what you want. You gonna let her? Sit back and do nothing like your daddy?"

Bill was quiet; then, something clicked in his eyes. Dean saw the hardness and for one moment he thought that just maybe he'd pushed too far.

"No," Billy growled back. "She doesn't own me." That trace of uncertainty crept back in. "But, how do we get out of here? Like you said, she'll be on us before we get a few steps."

"Which is why you gotta do exactly as I say, okay?" When Bill nodded, Dean continued throwing a searching gaze toward the kitchen. "Do you have any salt in the house?"

"What?" Bill cut his eyes at Dean. "Why?"

Dean heard the doubt in his words, saw it creeping into his face. One wrong word from Dean and the whole ruse could turn on him. Billy would be gone and Bill, the bastard bent on killing him, would be back.

"Salt. It's pure. It drives away evil," Dean explained hurriedly. It was getting hard to breathe and keep things in focus, to stay conscious. "Not... forever, but it'll get her off our asses long enough to get the hell outta here."

"But after—she'll come after us. Kill you again. Make me… do things with her."

"No. She can't." Shifting sent a whole new jagged line of pain up Dean's spine. "We’ll make sure that she can’t. Her body… do you know where her body is?"

Billy nodded and added dispassionately, "She’s under the stairs. Dad too."

Dean paused for a moment, taking in the implications of that fact. Damn! This was one fucked up family…

"She can't come after you, man. She and Daddy, their evil happened here, means they're tied to this house," Dean went on, reminding himself that he wasn’t comforting the son of a bitch who’d just spent a full day torturing him, the sick bastard that had every intention of keeping him around as a toy for the rest of Dean’s existence; no, Dean was comforting the little boy who had had one lousy pick of parents and had ended up killing them to survive. He was also comforting his only chance of getting out of there.

"That filthy bastard," Margret’s voice cut in. They couldn't see her but they could hear her and she was close. "Now where did I leave my boys...?"

Their time was up.

Dean shook Billy again. "Salt, Billy. Now!"

"Um... no, I—" Billy stammered back, confused. "There's none."

"Think," Dean said through gritted teeth. "Fucking Minnesota and there's no salt? Road salt? Any kind of fucking salt!"

A light seem to go on in Bill's eyes. "The barn. Ice-melting salt."

"That'll work," Dean whispered. Letting go of Billy's collar he slumped back, exhausted.

Margret walked around the corner, hands on her hips. "There you are." Her black lips drew back into a sneer.

Billy stood and turned to face her, hands clenched into fists. "No, Momma. You can't hurt him anymore. I won't let you." He jutted his chin out, feet apart, putting himself between her and Dean.

Margret canted her head at him in bemused confusion. "Ah, my poor, sweet confused William." She closed the distance between them freakishly fast. "That's where you're wrong, baby."

A quick tilt of her head to the left, and her eyes found Dean.

"Ah, hell," Dean groaned, knowing what was coming.

In short order, Dean found himself lifted and slammed into the wall behind him. The pain was just something he'd never get used to. It sent the air rushing from his lungs in a gasp. Then he was dropped to the ground, unceremoniously.

"Momma!" Billy was standing behind her, pulling at his own hair. There was hesitation and indecision in his eyes. In his voice. "No, please."

It was clear in the way Billy looked from Dean to the kitchen. The way his feet turned, even if his body didn't, that he had no idea what he should do. Billy was on the fence. Was ready to break. Then his shoulders twisted and he looked at Margret.

"Yes, sweet William. See, you've got to learn," her voice dripped with malevolence, "who you belong to." Then she looked at Dean, eyes squinted in some kind of freakish delight.

Dean was under no illusions. He knew this guy would just as soon kill him as look at him but there was something else at work here. A power struggle, an urgent need to break free of his momma's ghost, though Dean wondered if Billy knew she was really dead. Didn't matter, she'd been controlling him his whole life. Dean was sure Billy didn't see a difference if she were dead or alive.

There was something else there too and it gave Dean pause in just how far he pushed Billy. There was a possessive streak. It nagged at Dean's mind in that if this worked –and he didn't hold out much hope that it would--and Billy actually managed to get him out of there, just how would Dean keep the smitten psychopath from doing exactly what he'd threatened earlier to do to Dean. Keep him.

The thought would've made Dean grimace, but he was just too tired, weak and hurting. Instead he watched Billy look from his captive to the door. Saw him twist on the balls of his feet, toward the door. God, he was really going to do it. He was going to make a break for the door. Was going to help, in his own sick, twisted way...

Jaw clenched in pain, Dean pinned Bill with what he hoped was a strong sense of urgency. "Just... GO!" he said, giving his voice more strength than he felt. Time was running out for Dean.

"Go?" Margret threw here head back in a brief fit of laughter. "You don't decide that or anything else," she said. Apparently she'd thought the statement was meant for her. "I'm staying right here. It'll be a pleasure taking my time, ripping you apart."

Then Dean felt his body fly back. The contact was hard, unyielding, pain on top of pain.

Dazed, Dean watched the room gray until his eyes slammed shut. In his mind he struggled to maintain any tenuous hold he had on a snowball's chance that he'd survive this. In the darkness of his mind, he didn’t see Billy spin on one heel and run out of the room.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)


	11. Chapter 11

 

  
  

 

**Speedometer** pegged, the Impala careened down the gravel drive. When the house came into view, Sam jerked the wheel hard to the right and punched the gas.

The engine roared, and the front tires felt like they were lifting into the air, like a prancing horse, eager to race. The uneven road made the whole frame of the car jump up and down, in a series of bone jarring bounces to the hard-packed ground. Sam fought for control while he maintained speed and after a series of swerves and fishtails the car straightened out and careened toward its objective: a headlong collision with the farmhouse.

"Hang on!" Sam shouted.

Jeremy buried his head in Dean's jacket, braced for impact. But at the last moment, Sam angled the car to the area between the house and barn and slammed on the breaks.

The car slid several yards, loose gravel and dirt pounding the undercarriage. When impact seemed inevitable, Sam cut the wheel hard to the left; the back end swung around, and as the car came to a stop, it shifted to the right, the left-side tires lifting slightly before slamming back to the ground.

Just like that, everything stopped.

Before the dirt and dust settled around them, Sam was in motion. Throwing the gear into park, he killed the engine and scooped up the shotgun he'd tucked under his right hip; he'd secured it there to keep it from jostling around.

"You stay here," Sam ordered. It wasn't until after he’d checked then chambered a round that he looked at the kid. "Hear me?"

At some point, Jeremy had pulled his head from that coat and was staring out his window. Staring at the house that only hours ago had been his prison. His death sentence. One small hand pressed against the passenger side window.

Sam wanted nothing more than to get the kid away from here, but there was no time. Already he feared time had run out for Dean.

"Hey!" Sam snapped.

Jeremy jumped but turned to meet Sam's anxious stare. His eyes were wide and his jaw trembled as he spoke. "I-I don't w-wanna be here again."

Sam winced in the face of the boy's sheer terror. "Look," he said putting a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder. "I get that you're scared, but my brother's in there. I gotta go get him. Just stay in the car. Lock the doors. You'll be safe, okay?"

It was more conversation than Sam wanted to take time for but he forced himself to stay still, to assure the boy in some way. The car wouldn’t protect him against ghosts, but it would surely delay any attack from the human part of this whole mess.

Besides, once he’d got Dean out of that house, Sam had a feeling hanging around to find a scared, run-off kid, would be the last thing they'd have time for.

Jeremy looked at the house, then slowly turned back to Sam and after another moment nodded.

This time Sam barely waited for the second nod when he was out of the Impala, his door slammed shut and racing to the house. In a half-dozen long strides he hopped onto the first step and took the remaining two at a time only to skid to a halt at the top of the last step.

Sounds, muffled and muted, issued from the other side of the door. Sam canted his head and listened.

Voices first, one female, high-pitched and grating; she was shouting. Next came a series of crashes, loud and heavy.

Sam lurched forward and placed his head against the door and listened, right hand resting on the doorknob, tense and ready. He needed to orient himself to the sounds inside, be patient. Find out exactly where to go once he opened that door.

The woman's voice broke sharply across the quiet. Sounds of running feet. A crash. And Sam knew: inside and to the right.

Sam grabbed the knob with a tight grip, each crash stabbing at his heart, knowing that Dean was somehow involved. An unearthly screech punctuated the crashing noise and it was quickly followed by the one sound Sam didn't want to hear. It sent anxious chills like a shot down his spine.

The sound of a human cry of pain. Male.

"Dean," Sam whispered anxiously.

That was all Sam needed. Shoulder to the door, he drew back and shoved. Hard. Not even bothering to turn the knob. The door gave way, wood splintered and glass shattered. Sam stumbled inside, the room eerie in the pale morning light. The shotgun was up and ready.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**Jeremy** watched as Sam rounded the car and flew up the front door steps. Watched him hesitate a moment, shotgun in his right hand. Then watched him disappear inside.

It was all he could do to stay in the car when everything in him told him to run. Told him to get away. Told him he was a fool to have come back here.

Surrounded by the powerful steel armor of Sam’s car, engulfed both in the leather of the seat and of Dean’s coat, Jeremy felt some modicum of safety, so he did just what the guy, Sam, had said. He reached quickly from door to door and punched down the locks. Then, he slouched low into his seat.

He wanted to hide his head in the coat again, to black out the world, believe he was invisible if he could not see them. But being alone, not seeing was worse. So, he hunkered down, jamming himself in the space between the seat and the dashboard, letting the lighter tones of the early morning sky, shining over the dashboard and warming the car, give him at least some measure of comfort.

Then he heard it. Another sound. Slamming doors.

Sam had gone into the house; that had been the first slam. Maybe he was coming out. Maybe with Dean now. Maybe it was over and they could leave now...

Jeremy craned his neck, and his eyes flew wide. It wasn’t Sam. And it certainly wasn’t Dean.

It was Bill.

Like a rock, Jeremy dropped back down and curled into a ball, hoping he hadn’t been spotted. But the car had. “Shit…,” he murmured into the heat of the jacket. His head hid beneath the leather confines.

It was quiet. Too quiet. Only the sound of his rapid breathing filled the space. Nothing was happening. Why was nothing happening? Maybe Bill had taken off. Maybe he’d seen the car and run away. Maybe…

Jeremy risked a peek out of the jacket. Seeing nothing he inched up higher, slowly, getting up just enough to see out the window.

Bill was no longer standing, he was stalking. Toward the car. Toward him. Thunder on his face. Determination and death in his eyes.

Jeremy's mind spun out of control. “Shit!”

There was no way he could run fast enough, get far enough. Not without Bill going after him again, catching him again. Just like before.

But he couldn’t stay here and let the psycho get his hands on him again. And what about Dean? And Sam? And—

“SAAAM!” he shouted, eyes wide with panic, staring anxiously at the house. Willing them to hear his shouts. Praying they’d come running in time to save him.

Bill stopped, gaze locked on the house. Watching him, Jeremy heard it too, the shouts. Other sounds too. Sounds of crashing. The voices screaming. Then, as quickly as it had escalated, it stopped.

Bill, who had stilled midway between the car and the house, started moving again. Toward the car.

Scared, Jeremy ducked back down. In his haste, Jeremy's knee hit the angled part of the dash hard and the glove compartment door bounced open. Tears of frustration, pain and fear streamed down his face and he moaned, reaching a hand down to rub at the spot where he'd struck the bone.

And he froze.

A gun. There was a shiny gun peeking out from the darkness of the glove compartment.

Without even thinking, Jeremy found his hand moving toward the weapon. The gun, blue-black steel, felt heavy and cold against Jeremy’s sore knee-cap.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)

**Once** inside, Sam released the door and moved quietly in the direction from which he'd heard the voices.

"You think you’re clever?" a woman's voice hissed.

"N-no... ma’am," a familiar voice groaned more than answered. "I know I am. You're just too stupid to know it."

Sam cursed under his breath as he moved quietly toward the location of the conversation. He was caught between wanting Dean to shut the fuck up and relief that Dean had enough fight in him to still be verbally sparring with the very thing that might end him, permanently.

Praying the aged boards wouldn't give his presence away, Sam gripped the gun tightly and moved forward. Reaching the entrance to the other room he pressed his back to the wall and waited. Edging slowly to the opening, Sam leaned ever so slightly forward to get a look at the room beyond.

"When I'm done with you," she growled, "you'll wish my William had killed you hours ago."

"Ah, sugar," Dean said, voice strained, "don’t dwell in the past. Besides ‘m pretty sure he likes me more'n you."

There was a heaviness in the room. Sam hadn't realized it before. But it was growing, building into something ugly and deadly. Giving the air around him a current. It radiated through the atmosphere like a pulse. Sam knew that feeling; the ghost was preparing to strike.

Sam knew he had to move. In one single movement, Sam rounded the wall, gun brought to bear in the same move. Ready to fire when he had her in sight. Ready to get his brother back. Eager to stop the pain she was obviously inflicting.

Sam froze.

The female specter, glowing and pulsing with energy, stood some five feet away, her back to Sam, concentration focused on her captive. On Dean.

Sam got a good look at his brother, his first since Dean disappeared. Dean was a good three feet off the ground, bleeding against the wall. Trapped, suspended in some supernatural force, his socked feet dangled free. Covered in grime and blood, his face was pinched in obvious pain. Blood streaked down the sides of his face and arms. There was a cloth of some sort wrapped high around one leg.

But that wasn't what sent a knot of worry into Sam's throat.

Dean was pinned, incapable of moving anywhere, standing directly in Sam's line of fire. Even though he gave no indicator the he'd seen him, there was no way Dean couldn't see him. Sam was standing there like a rookie, unable to decide what he should do next.

Because, if he risked pulling the trigger, there was no way Dean wouldn't catch some, if not a large portion of the rock salt. That wouldn't do. Sam would not be responsible for causing his brother more injury. Not if he could help it.

"Mind your tongue," Margret seethed, apparently missing Sam’s presence completely.

"Fuck you, bitch," Dean shot back angrily.

Though, if Dean didn't keep his mouth shut...

Another realization hit Sam; Dean was _looking_ at him. Eyes hard and determined, telling Sam to do the unthinkable.

No. Sam shook his head, arguing silently. No way he was going to shoot. No way he was going to add to Dean's suffering. Not if he could help it.

No, he had to move, had to risk discovery and find a better angle. He shifted again to the left, alternating his watchful gaze between the ghost and the clutter around him to make sure he could move without making a ruckus.

Margret screamed angrily and pressed her outstretched hand forward.

Sam froze.

The wall at Dean's back started to crumble and give. Dean's face contorted, screwed up in pain. "Sam...," Dean gritted out, "take... th’ shot!"

Position given away, there was no more time for options. Margret Brimmer was turning. Gun at his hip, Sam cursed his brother and pulled the trigger like he hadn’t in years. With his eyes screwed shut.

Howling in rage, Margret dissipated into the frigid air of the old house. As her energy faded, Dean dropped with a dry thud.

"Dean!" Sam called as he rushed forward. Broken furniture and pieces of drywall littered his path and he kicked them aside, eager to get to his brother's side. His brother who wasn't moving as he knelt, his hand hovering uncertainly over Dean’s shoulder.

"It's just rock salt you wuss." Dean's voice sounded muffled from where he lay, in a heap, face down on the floor. Rolling to his side he peered through pinched eyes at Sam and grinned. "Thought… you’d never… get here."

Sam breathed a quick huff of relief. "Jesus, Dean," he snapped back, though there was no weight behind it. "This is worth the biggest ‘I-told-you-so' ever. And you forced me to take that shot!”

Dean, conscious but just barely, gave him a weak attempt at a smirk.

"If she'd heard you, and she would've, she'd have gotten you next. Best to just get it over with." Dean reached out and grabbed Sam's arm. "Help me up, dumbass."

"You basically made me shoot you," Sam ground out as he helped his brother to a sitting position. "That makes you the dumbass."

"Yeah," Dean grunted, one arm wrapped around his torso. "Whatever."

"If you'd just given me a... s-second," the thought trailed off as Sam got a closer look at his brother. The t-shirt was soaked through with blood, on the front and back. His wrists were torn and bloody, both fresh and old tendrils of red running down his arms.

"It's okay, Sam. I’m fine."

"What the hell did he—they do to you?" Sam's frantic gaze traveled down his legs and stopped where torn denim began. Fresh blood oozed over new wounds all over Dean’s knees and thighs. "Oh God, I did. Dean I–"

"Sam stop. I'm fine," Dean interrupted. Sam's 'bullshit' face met his eyes. "Well, maybe not fine, but given the last twenty-four hours, believe me, I've had worse, way worse. Those are just... m-mosquito bites. Now, c'mon," he lifted one hand and flapped it about before bumping Sam's arm weakly. “Up. Help me up.”

“Right, but... Dean, your feet.” Sam had noticed the oozing wounds when he'd run up to him. He cast a speculative glance at them now. It'd be hard as hell to put weight on them. “M–maybe I should just… you know...”

“Oh, _hell_ no,” Dean grimaced and latched onto Sam's arm with both hands. “Not on my worst day..." he gasped as he leaned forward, hands flailing until they wrapped around Sam's arms, "are you carrying me.” He leaned forward, teeth grinding.

Dean suddenly latched onto Sam with both hands. And pulled. "Dean wha-”

Then, before Sam realized what he'd intended, Dean moved one hand over the other, in a hand over hand combination; he was climbing him, using Sam like he was a friggin' ladder or something. Clearly he was determined to do this with our without his help.

“Jesus, hang on a second.” Sam grabbed onto Dean's upper arms and helped get him up the rest of the way. Trying to take it slow, only too aware of his brother's grunts of pain.

"C'mon, up-up-up," Dean urged, apparently done with being close-buddies with the floor.

When it was all said and done, the end result left Dean more stooped over and wavering than standing and steady. Leaning slightly, one arm remained clutched around his midsection, while the other pressed to the wall, anchoring himself so Sam wouldn't have to. Not that Sam had expected much more and it was far better than what he'd thought Dean capable of in his current condition. So all in all, this? This was a downright success, at least by Winchester norms.

Dean's harsh breaths filled the room and much as Sam wanted to give him time, he knew that was a luxury they didn't have. Knew Dean knew it too. "Okay?" Sam asked doubtfully, arms outstretched in case he toppled.

Dean looked up and nodded. "Peachy." Though he didn't seem inclined to move yet.

"Really? 'Cause you look like hell." Sam eyed him. “I could still carry you." Dean looked horrified at him. "Your worst day. Dean, man, if this isn't it then...”

“Not worst enough." Dean shook his head adamantly. The movement sent him wobbling a bit. "You even think about carrying me, I’ll kick your ass.”

"Fine, fine," Sam chuckled and steadied his brother again. This time he didn't let go. "You ready to get out of here?"

“No.” Dean shook his head. “The Brimmers’ bodies are under the stairs. Can’t leave ‘til their bones are burned, Sam.”

“What?” Sam blurted out. He looked at the stairs and back to his brother. “Dean you’re in no condition to—”

“I’m not leaving ‘til we do this.”

“How do you even know their bones are in there?” Sam waved in the direction of the stairs.

Dean hesitated.

“Dean!” Sam snapped.

“Billtoldme,” he muttered quickly.

Sam’s brow shot up in disbelief. “Bill? As in the same guy who kidnapped you Bill? The psycho?”

“Yeah.” Dean shot a petulant look at his brother. “That Bill.”

“And you trust him?”

“Hell, no! But I think we can both agree that there is a pretty pissed off spirit in this house, which means her body is in here somewhere. The stairs are as good a place as any to start. Now,” he snapped his fingers, “break out the salt and let’s get moving.”

Sam’s face fell.

Dean was quiet. “You... didn’t bring salt.” It was a statement, not a question. The tone sober and layered in disbelief. Sam's silence was answer enough. “What the hell, Sam?” Dean snapped.

“Excuse me, but I was more concerned about saving your ass. And it wasn’t like this whole thing was screaming angry spirit from the get go, was it Dean?”

Dean took a breath and doubled over a little. The hand on the wall came away long enough to give Sam a 'be with you in a second' finger.

Sam rolled his eyes, knowing he should just grab Dean and get him the hell out of that house. But, Sam knew Dean. Knew that any pain and weakness on Dean's part was eclipsed only by his stubbornness and determination and if he tried to drag Dean out of there now, Sam would find himself on his back, on the floor, with a bloody lip.

It was a near thing though, especially when he noticed how on the hand Dean had pressed to the wall, the fingers were no longer flat, but curled in, the nails digging into the surface, latching on. Noticed too how, when he turned his head and bit his lip, how the pain lines around his eyes deepened; he was riding out a wave of pain.

When it was over, Dean nodded at him. There was no anger in Dean’s eyes over the missing salt or unprepared little brother, only understanding amongst all the residual pain, and the turning of wheels as he searched mentally for another option.

Sam looked down, feeling suddenly twelve years old again.

Dean sighed. "Guess I might've done the same thing in your shoes." He huffed and glanced down at his socked-covered toes. "Man… what I wouldn't give for some shoes."

Dean's comment had been meant as a joke, meant to lighten the load. But Sam didn't feel like laughing just yet.

Sam kept his eyes averted, downcast. "Shoes are replaceable," he said quietly, the rest unspoken. He lifted his gaze and Dean stared back at him. Sam willed his brother to understand just how close they'd come. How terrified he'd been. Dean looked away first. A good sign that he had gotten it just as Sam had meant.

“Alright then,” Dean coughed, breaking the awkward silence. With a grunt he seemed to settle against the wall. “Leave me here and run back to the car and get—”

“What? No,” Sam interrupted, patting down his jacket as he spoke. “Not leaving without you Dean.” His eyes widened and one hand stilled over his left jacket panel. “Wait,” he said as he fished into the pocket. From it, he produced the four extra salt rounds he'd put there earlier. “This should do the trick.”

Dean caught the idea quickly. “Think there’s enough in those?”

Sam shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out. Here, you should keep this in case she comes back,” Sam said, handing the recently fired shotgun into his brother’s hands.

“Stow that crap… I’m coming with!”

Sam had the grace to limit his answer to a pointed look at the way Dean was barely on his feet, supported by the wall as it was. The paint, where it touched his wounds, was tinted red. The section of wall he'd been clutching had holes, five finger-sized holes.

Dean lowered his eyes in defeat, gripping the gun tightly. "'Kay, I'll just— wait." Dean grabbed Sam's arm. "Load both chambers first, 'n case the wicked bitch of the west comes screeching back in."

Sam nodded. "Only fired once," he said shoving a round into the empty chamber and snapping the sawed-off shut. "That gives me three packed shells of salt for the Brimmers' bones."

"Hope that’s e—" Dean hissed, lips pressed in a thin line as Sam wordlessly helped lower him back to the floor, "—nough."

The ride down to the floorboards wasn't even the worst part. Sam tried to be gentle but with Dean tottering, even on his ass, he decided to maneuver him to lean his side against the wall, mindful of his back. There were several unchecked grunts of pain and Sam was sure he heard Dean's teeth grinding audibly with the added torment.

Sam had no idea what kind of mess he'd find later, when they actually had the time to take a breath and regroup. He could only imagine what Dean had been through. He looked like he was in rough shape, and that said a lot about what Dean couldn’t hide.

"Sorry," he offered, making sure Dean was steady before he moved away. It surprised Sam to find Dean's eyes open wide and gazing wildly around the room, his grip on the shotgun steadier than Sam had ever thought it would be.

“Get crackin', Sammy," he said. Already Dean had taken up a supportive position for his more mobile brother. Gun gripped tight and eyes scanning the room.

Sam gingerly placed one foot on the first step. It held but he could hear the aged wood creaking beneath his weight. Instead of walking up them, he lay down to distribute his weight vertically. Pulling out his maglight, Sam used it to tap on the steps one by one. On the fourth step a hollowed sound answered him.

It took very little force to the blow; the wood shattered easily. A moldy smell, layered in years of dirt and dust, filled his nose. Flipping the light over, he turned it on and shone it inside the dark interior. First thing he saw was hair. Old and ratty in the light, barely clinking to a yellowed surface. Skulls, two. Adult.

"Bingo," Sam murmured quietly. “Well, he wasn’t lying,” he said louder for Dean to hear, waving a hand to scatter the dust that floated in front of him. Angling the beam he saw more bones. Old, tattered clothes.

“Told you,” Dean said tiredly. “Now quit fucking around.”

Sam made quick work of breaking the metal caps from the casings in his hand. Careful not to spill any outside the target, he dumped the salt content of each down into the dark space.

"What," a familiar female voice grated from behind them, "leaving so soon?"

Sam froze. The voice had sounded from the direction where he’d left his brother. Dean’s soft "Fuck!" was all the confirmation Sam needed to know that Margret was back.

Sam knew what he should do. Stay put. Salt the bones. Light them on fire. End the hunt.

It was the safest and surest way to assure that Margret was gone once and for all.

It also meant leaving Dean, who was barely conscious, alone. To face the spirit that had been using him as a pinball before Sam got there.

Sam consciously made the biggest mistake of his life. He abandoned the bones unburned and rushed back to Dean’s side.

Dean was up, but clearly not by his own volition. Margret seemed to have a thing about pinning people to walls. Which was fitting, since Dean seemed to have a thing about _being_ the one pinned to walls.

The shotgun, the one that Sam had left in his brother’s hands, was abandoned on the floor, near the wall. Dean hadn’t even managed to squeeze one shot out.

Either Margret was that good… or Dean was feeling that bad.

Sam raced to the gun. His fingers wrapped around the handle, bringing it up, ready to fi—then it was gone. Ripped from Sam's grasp, it crashed against a far wall, drywall and dust fluttering to the ground in its wake.

Margret Brimmer spread her glare between the two of them. "Tsk-tsk-tsk," she said as she lowered her hand. "We were just having fun." She angled her gaze up, to where Dean stood, her intent clear. She took a step forward.

In answer, Sam made his intent clear too. Taking up a protective stance, he stepped between them. A look of surprise settled on her pale, smudged face, like she couldn’t understand how someone could possibly chose to put himself in harm’s way.

It was a futile move, Sam knew; she could just knock him from her path with little effort, but he'd be damned if he just let her have Dean without a fight.

Dingy brown teeth peeked between her thin lips when she sneered up at him. Tall, but not as tall as him, she was scrawny with ratty hair and a garment that she'd no doubt died in.

She cocked her head to the side and gazed up at Sam. "You're pretty tall for a guard dog."

"Sam," Dean warned, though Sam knew it was more. It was move out of her way. It was an order to leave.

"No, Dean," Sam answered, eyes glued to Margret. "I'm not just handing you over to her."

Margret sneered at Sam. "Too bad you're all bark and no bite." She flicked her wrist.

Sam felt a jolt to his chest. Before he could even blink, he was flying backward. The world rushed by, blurred and jumbled. He made a grab for anything to slow his momentum. There was nothing. It finally ended when his back collided with a piece of furniture. All the air in his lungs was expelled on impact and his sight grayed at the pain.

Through the haze of pain, Sam heard her. "Now," Margret hissed. "Where were we?"

"We were right about the part where I kick your ass and you burn, you bitch."

"Cute," Margret mocked. "You still think you can get the better of me?" She blinked forward a bit more. "You think I'm gullible like my sweet William?"

"I think you're a crazy, psycho bitch ghost, that's what I think," Dean said as he rolled to the right and put one hand to the wall to brace himself.

Sam swallowed and balled his fists in frustration. Dean was trying to break free of her power. He could see the determination in the way Dean's jaw was set; could see it in the way his eyes turned dark.

It wouldn't work, no matter how determined his brother was. Dean was physically done.

Sam wasn't, but he had to find another way.

Looking around he quickly spotted where the gun had landed this time around. He was actually closer to it now and, if Sam waited for the exact right moment, he might just make it there without Margret taking notice. Unfortunately, the only available distraction for the angry ghost, right now, was Dean. Sam would have to allow Margret get her hooks in Dean again if he wanted any chance of getting that gun and stopping it before it got out of hand...

Sam leaned to his right, in the direction of the gun. Body tense, waiting for just the right moment to move. No way he'd let Margret have Dean for too long.

"Margret," a male voice called. It was hoarse and weak, but it grew in strength as the man entered the room. He came slowly from the kitchen like his feet were too heavy for him to move. "That. Is. Enough."

Sam's gaze traveled over Margret to the man slowly entering the room. Heavy set, just slightly shorter than Margret, he wore old denim jeans and a plaid long sleeved shirt. Thinning hair covered his head and his image blinked out twice before solidifying.

Another ghost. Sam could bet dollars to donuts that this was Hal, the other half of the two skulls he’d found.

"You!" Margret spun on the intruder. "Do not. Tell me. What to do."

The newcomer moved unnaturally fast. With jerky movements, he came to stop, only a few feet from Margret.

"I'll tell you," his voice grew more thunderous with each word, "whatever the hell I want." A few unnatural, staccato movements later he was standing in front of her. Face angry, his message clear. “This time… this time I do what I should’ve done a long time ago!” the male ghost shouted, before lunging at Margret, both energies clashing and moving through the wall, into the kitchen area.

Sam's brow rose, even as he took his cue and made a grab for the abandoned shotgun. A million questions on his mind, he turned toward his brother. The questions died when he saw Dean attempting to get to his feet. Apparently, the newcomer ghost had distracted Margret enough for her control over his brother to slip.

It was clear though, Dean was out of steam. Facing gravity on his own terms, even without a ghost messing with his balance, was a bit like watching a turtle flipped on its back, only worse.

Sam could see him struggle, could see the pain and the increasing lack of strength.

Without a second thought, Sam was up and moving, racing to his side, ready to get Dean out of harm’s way for once. Wanting to help, but he caught sight of something out of his periphery and ducked. A lamp flew over his head and crashed to the floor behind him. Wide eyed, Sam felt the entire room buzz with high tension energy.

Then things got really bad.

Not just lamps and books, but furniture, pots and pans and photos, they all started flying. Started crashing into walls, slamming against the ceiling. Dust and drywall flew, making visibility harder. Lights that shouldn't have been working started flashing and Sam watched in terror as a chair careened, heading straight towards Dean. Watched in relief as his brother rolled out of the way just as it slammed to the floor where he’d been seconds before.

Between the shrieks and shouts, rushing wind, flying furniture and debris, it was becoming increasingly hard to hear too, let alone to avoid being hit. And just when he thought it couldn't get worse, the winds escalated. Picked up speed and velocity. They created a vacuum, increasing in pressure and intensity, making it hard to move. Like a tornado’s vortex contained in the four walls of the house.

A small piece of wood flew at Sam’s head, but he batted it away like it was nothing but a fly. His sole purpose and drive was focused on getting to Dean.

Shouldering the escalating winds, Sam finally managed to reach him. Kneeling, he took hold of Dean’s arm and started to help him up. "What the hell Dean? Next time I tell you to wait for me, you better friggin' wait for me!" he shouted over the noise.

"Really? You—" he ducked, pulling Sam down with him. A piece of airborne glass shattered against the wall exactly where they’d been standing. “You wanna do this now?” Dean stared at him wide-eyed and more than a little pissed. “Here?"

Sam's lips thinned. "C'mon," he said and heaved Dean to his feet once again.

The sudden reorientation left Dean swaying and Sam quickly pulled his arm over his shoulder to get them both somewhat steady before slowly pushing toward the door.

“No, no, no.” Dean realized where they were going and put the brakes to their sloppy exodus. “You gotta finish it, Sam. Gotta burn their bones once and for all.”

If Sam had had the time, he would’ve counted to ten to calm himself. He hadn’t. So, he didn’t. “Are you serious!? Look at this place, Dean!” he shouted.

The struggle between the two ghosts was gaining speed and strength, their combined energies were ripping and tearing at the already dilapidated old house. The walls were shaking, the ceiling was crumbling. The whole thing was one gust of wind away from falling apart.

“We have to go. Now! Before this whole house comes crashing down on our heads,” Sam finished, not even waiting to see if Dean had finally seen reason or not. Weak as he was, there wasn’t much he could do to weigh in on where they were going.

They were close. Just a few more steps and they’d reach the door…

Just when Sam thought they’d make it, a large bookshelf toppled and their escape was blocked.

“Fuck!” Dean shouted over the roaring winds. “We need to find some other way out,” Sam said, quickly figuring out that there was no way he was moving that ugly, heavy piece of furniture. “Place like this… there has to be a back do--”

Sam stopped and turned when he felt Dean break free of his hold, apparently fully intent on grabbing one end of the two-ton-looking bookshelf and bolstering it up. “Dean, what—”

"We have to... front door." Dean breathed.

“Wait,” Sam moved around and blocked Dean’s way. “Why? We can’t get through the front door. I—”

“There was a kid… I left him on the front porch.” Dean’s eyes looked wild and unfocused.

Sam would’ve grinned if it weren’t for the nagging suspicion that his brother’s grasp of the here and now was slowly slipping away. “You mean Jeremy?”

Dean stared askance and Sam explained. “He’s fine, terrified but fine. I found him half a mile down the road, Dean. Not—" he ducked a passing plate, "not on the front porch. He's how I found the farm in the first place.”

“Where I—” Dean ducked this time; a pot from the kitchen slammed against the wall behind him, “is he now?” Sam grabbed his arm and maneuvered both of them so their backs were to the wall, less in the direct path of the abundant flying objects.

“I left him in the Impala.”

"What?" Dean practically shouted, wide eyes focused completely on Sam. "You mean alone?”

“Yeah? Dean—”

“Where’d you leave the car?”

“Out front but—” and he grabbed Dean’s sleeve when he tried to move around him, “we can’t go through there. What’s this all about?”

“Bill’s still… out there.” Dean’s worried gaze held Sam’s. “I fucking sent that perv out there. If he sees the car... he sees Jeremy.”

Sam got it immediately. “Well, we need to get out of here first.” Sam pointed toward the back of the house. “Kitchen?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah… I think I saw a back door there.”

Sam looked at him askance. Dean started moving towards the kitchen and Sam paled, not at all thrilled at the prospect of walking back toward the one place they’d just seen Margret and that other ghost disappear into.

Knowing that they really didn’t have a choice in this, Sam quickly caught up with Dean’s unstable steps and bent slightly over, both to accommodate Dean’s ailing ribs and to turn themselves into as small a target for debris as possible. Then the brothers turned and hobbled back toward the kitchen. It went better than Sam had expected, with only the occasional near miss of a flying object and the occasional stumble.

They came abreast of another threshold before reaching the kitchen and Sam squinted into the room beyond. Then stumbled to a halt.

“What?” Dean shouted, though he apparently wasn’t curious enough to lift his head and look for himself.

They were half the distance to the back door when Dean realized what had given his brother pause. The two ghosts were fighting in the middle of the air, like two Tasmanian devils, light and electricity flowing from their intertwined energies like a miniature thunder storm had erupted in the kitchen. Appliances crashed; doors and drawers opened and closed in a frenetic, angry cacophony. The shrieking that had died down with distance was almost deafening this close.

They didn't pay it much mind until a loud pop and hiss. Then Sam sniffed the air.

“You smell gas?”

“Huh?” Dean huffed, exhaustion evident. “I don’t smell—”

They both stopped, and shared a look. “Shit!” they said in unison and looked toward the kitchen corner where the oven should be.

There was a scream and seconds later the gas oven smashed through the wall and flew into the small room, crashing to the floor.

“Go, go, go!” Sam shouted but Dean was moving long before he got the words out.

Together they smashed through the small screen just as a loud explosion shook their world. They didn’t have to worry about making it the rest of the way. The force of the explosion threw them clear out of the house.

They hit the ground face first, in a flail of limbs that drove the air from their lungs, and left them both dazed. Recovering first, Sam, quickly scuttled across the ground and threw himself over Dean, who had by this time, managed to curl into a ball, arms flung over his head. With his body shielding Dean from as much of the blown glass, burning wood and drifting flames that rained down all around them, Sam then covered his own head and they rode it out together.

Sam dared to look up just as several other first floor windows near the kitchen blew out. In a wild burst, flames shot out, licking at the outside world. Then just as quickly as they had come alive, the flames died down, burning and crackling steadily, only the occasional jumping fingers of fire visible in the early morning light.

Dean was still in a ball. Unmoving on the ground.

“Dean,” Sam coughed out. In attempt to avoid the heat and a possible secondary explosion, Sam crawled over to him and tapped him on the arm.

Dean lifted his head, stared dazedly at Sam a moment. "Y'okay?"

Sam grinned and shook his head. "I’m fine. C'mon, let’s get you home."

They crawled to stay out of range of the heat and smoke and when Sam figured it was safe, he helped Dean to his feet once again. They had both been breathing hard, but Dean seemed to need a moment to ride out a fit of coughing, so Sam stayed close, taking a moment himself to inspect his brother in the faint light of the rising sun.

They hadn’t inhaled that much smoke. The coughing wasn’t from that, and Sam could see Dean was sweating, profusely. He mentally added fever to his growing list of concerns. On the bright side, most of the blood on his arms and under his shirt appeared dark and stiff, so there was no new bleeding that he could see.

Then Dean lifted his head to nod, indicating he was ready to move. Sam didn’t like the blown look of his pupils.

Without a word, Sam stooped low to get Dean’s arm over his shoulder again and waited for Dean to mirror the movement of his feet, to let him set the pace.

But Dean didn’t seem inclined to move. Head up and wobbling, he looked around, his eyes dark green pools of confusion. "Car…?" he slurred.

A little disoriented himself, Sam realized the source of his confusion; they’d come out the back door. He’d left the Impala around the front of the house. Dean, on his last legs, swayed hard into him; it was clear he was about to crash.

"This way," Sam grunted, and half dragged, half carried Dean around to the side of the house. They gave the rapidly burning house a wide berth as they moved slowly.

Dean's head was hanging low, the arm that had been supporting his midsection swinging and Sam was about ready to see just how conscious he was. With Dean out of it enough, Sam could finally risk carrying him the rest of the way and speed things up a bit. And at the same time, the very thought lacked appeal because, while not as tall as his younger brother, Dean was solid packed muscle and carrying him would be a bi—

All thoughts of back pain and overweight brothers fled Sam’s mind as he took in the scene before him.

Between them and the car, there was a body, laid spread on the ground, the dirt around it a darker shade where blood had drained through the hole in his chest.

Further back, Jeremy sat on the ground, straight as a board, back against the Impala. Save for the tear streaks that had cut deep grooves into the dirt covering his cheeks, he stared straight ahead, face was devoid of emotion. His knees were drawn tight to his chest, arms keeping them close as he rocked, small shoulders trembling. The gun sat in the dirt, not three feet in front of him, probably right where he'd dropped it after shooting his captor.

"Shit," Dean breathed hoarsely.

They moved slowly toward Jeremy, their steps a combination of shuffles and exhausted scoots, only stopping when they got next to the dead body in the dirt.

“Is that—” Sam started. Even though there was only one person left accounted for, Sam needed to be sure.

“Yeah,” Dean sighed quietly. “William, or Billy, or perverted psychotic serial killer son of a bitch. I just called him Perv.”

Sam nodded, a little surprised Dean was able to string so many words out, no matter how hoarse and breathless they were. It hadn’t come without a cost; Dean broke into a fit of coughing. Again.

“God…,” Dean grimaced at the pull on his ribs. “Sucks.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam said quietly and they slowly made the last few feet over to the car. Jeremy didn’t move as they neared, his eyes locked on the lifeless form. “Jeremy?” he asked softly.

“He…,” Jeremy’s breathing hitched, shoulders jumping, hands lost in Dean’s coat sleeves. “He saw me… the car…” Another sniff and another tear rolled down. “He would’ve killed me. Or you guys.”

Sam nodded, felt Dean sagging deeper next to him. “There’s nothing wrong with defending yourself, Jeremy,” he placated, offering what he hoped was a sympathetic look. “It was the only thing you could do.”

It was an awkward moment and, suddenly a little uncertain as to what to do next, Sam shifted around on his feet. Dean, who’d gone lax again, was nearly unconscious in his arms, the medical attention growing more urgent by the minute.

"Sam?" he slurred, voice whisper soft.

Sam turned and looked at his brother. Dean was looking at the barn, his gaze surprisingly clear and focused. The wind was whipping toward the old structure.

"What Dean?"

"Wind's going to carry flames... barn'll be next." His head wobbled and he turned to stare glassy-eyed at his brother. "There's a cow in there."

"A cow." It wasn't a question but Sam was a little confused about where Dean was going with this. Certainly he wasn’t expecting Sam to just drop everything and go rescue a cow… right? "Dean," Sam choked anxiously, "We need to get outta here—"

"Fine..." Dean interrupted and let go of his brother. "Do it m'self," he slurred and stumbled off.

It was an awkward attempt at best, but he didn't get very far. After only a couple of drunken steps, uneven and wobbly, his legs started crumbling and his ass was heading to the ground.

"Dean!" Sam shouted. He reached Dean's side in two steps, catching him before he hit the ground. "All this over a fucking cow?" Getting his shoulder under his brother Sam grunted at the nearly dead weight. "Are you high?"

"Can't let 'er roast Sammy," Dean slurred. His head was teetering but his eyes held fast to Sam's gaze. "Not her fault."

Adamantly shaking his head in denial, Sam stared at his brother, struggling to see what this was all really about, because there was no way Dean would be this adamant over just one stupid cow... There was more here. There had to be.

Looking deep inside his brother’s eyes, Sam couldn’t help but understand the real reason behind Dean’s sudden Hindu-ish love for cows. It wasn't that at all.

Exhausted and on edge over what ever had happened here in the past hours, Dean was desperately searching for an end the row of misery that the Brimmers had brought on this world. Any further life spent on behalf of this monster was one too many. Even if it was just a cow.

“Dammit, Dean," Sam caved. He turned them toward the car where Jeremy stood looking very confused. "Jeremy, get the door," he said with a nod to the back of the car.

The boy moved without question and opened the back passenger door.

Sam was lowering Dean to the seat when his older brother realized where Sam was stuffing him and objected. "Dude, back seat?"

"Shut up," Sam huffed as he set him down on the seat. "Just… wait here," he ordered, then turned to Jeremy. "Keep an eye on him. I'll be right back."

"But—" the boy started to protest.

Sam, however, was already moving with ground-eating strides toward the barn. To save the cow. God, he was never gonna live this one down.

"Be careful!" Dean's voice shouted above the crackling of the house fire. Above the whipping winds.

Sam could not believe this. Wasting time for a stupid cow. All he wanted to do was get Dean and Jeremy into the Impala and get the hell out of there. But no. Instead he was running into some creepy-assed barn to get the I'm-gonna-be-a-cheeseburger-when-I-grow-up out, before it turned to cinders.

A few feet inside the barn, Sam slid to a halt. The light from the single bulb overhead cast eery shadows in the room. The room that was rapidly filling with smoke.

There was... smoke and hay and dirt and an old forge in one corner. Stalls too, but they were empty. Unless it was a dwarf-cow, a fact that Dean had failed to mention so Sam discounted it and was back to looking for a normal sized cow.

A normal sized cow shouldn’t be something one easily missed, especially after an explosion large enough to have startled livestock for two counties, let alone some dumb-ass cow only a few yards away. The thing should be fussing noisily, pawing at its stall, eager to be out and away.

But no cow. Just the crackle of fire behind him, and drifting smoke in front of him.

"Dammit..." Sam murmured and tossed a glance back the way he'd come. Ready to just say 'fuck it' and leave.

But Sam knew better. Coming out of that barn with anything less than a freaked out bovine in tow would be a tough sell to his already obstinate brother. So, Sam sighed, muttered another curse and moved quickly from broken-down stall to broken-down stall. Searching.

The last stall nearest the forge, brought Sam up short. There were hot coals— odd, considering the fire drifting to the roof hadn't made it this far inside yet —glowing in the main fire pit. But what caught his eye was on the floor of the some-what empty stall next to it. Bones.

The odd assortment of bones looked familiar, and Sam squatted to get a closer look. There were hooves instead of feet near the back of the little enclosure, a definitely not-human spine and a skull. Atop the hard shell sat horns, most definitely cow-type horns.

This was Dean's cow.

The bones weren't fresh. Aged with dirt and grime, they sat there. Like whatever cow had once outlined the remains had just stood there and died. Starved to death, probably.

There never had been a cow here, but Dean had seemed so certain. So, what had his brother seen, exactly? Better yet, what was Sam going to tell Dean that Sam had seen?

"Shit, Dean," Sam sighed, carding a hand through his hair.

Dreading that conversation about a non-existent cow, Sam turned where he stood, scanning the rest of the room, hoping to find some other evidence of recent cow-occupation. The bulb overhead long since blinked out and the darkened interior grew eerily quiet. It hit Sam then; this was where Perv had kept his brother for close to twenty-four hours.

Then, when a pole, directly across from the dead cow's stall lined up with Sam's sight, he froze. A shiver of dread lanced his spine.

The ground surrounding the pole was littered with things Sam couldn't quite make out from where he stood. However, Sam didn't need that many details to figure out that that was the place where he’d kept Dean bound.

Despite his lack of desire to see, Sam swallowed the bile in his mouth and moved in for a closer look. He needed to know what had happened here, because knowing Dean, Sam would never get the whole truth out of his brother.

A stake was driven in at the top, remnants of cut zip ties draped over the steel. On the ground, there was a chaos of ripped cloth, medical wrappers and wire. More specifically, barbed wire. But it was the very solid layers of barbed wire around the pole that made Sam angry.

This close, he could tell the tips were coated with dark fluid. Blood. And bits of flesh and other stuff he didn't want to know about.

Distracted by the sight, Sam nearly bumped into something that was standing in his way.

It was a plastic cart, and on top of it were several implements. A half dozen knives of varying sizes. An electric prod seated on a battery charger. Rags covered in dark splotches, metal rods, thick rubber gloves and some medical tape. But it was the syringes and the four, half-empty vials scattered haphazardly on the surface that made Sam's blood run cold.

The clinic. Perv had taken several vials. Dean's cow-visions suddenly made more sense.

Shit.

"Sam!"

Dean's voice broke him out of his thoughts. It was closer than it should have been.

"Dean!" Sam turned toward the door. For the first time, he noticed the barn was full of smoke and it was getting thicker by the moment.

Nothing more than shadows, two figures— one tall and bulky, the other slight and short —filled the door. Dean was leaning against the boy, though Sam was sure he was doing more than his share of the work to spare the kid.

Sam quickly scooped up the vials and after shoving them inside his pocket, rushed over to his brother. "Thought I told you—"

"Barn's on fire," Dean blurted out, his eyes flared with worry. "You okay?"

"I'm fine, man," he said frantically and placed a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Let’s go!"

But Dean didn't move. His eyes were searching the stalls. "Bessie?"

The cow's — er, non-existent, hallucination, ghost cow's — name. Of course. Naturally, Dean would have named her.

Sam thought quick."The blast must've scared her off. See?" he turned and waved at the interior. "Not here. No cow." When bits of burning hay began drifting down from the rafters, Sam shortened Dean's perusal. "Dean, we gotta go, man."

Dean nodded and Sam nearly sagged with relief. "Yeah...," his gaze went up to the burning beams above. "Okay."

"Go--go!" Sam quickly slipped under Dean's shoulder and ushered Jeremy to lead the way. "Get to the car, go!" The kid was off like a shot, Sam helping Dean to hobble faster as they cleared the now rapidly burning barn.

Sam hadn't realized just how much smoke he'd inhaled until they got out and away from the barn. The fresh air left him coughing, bending at the waist, a hand on the Impala to keep him upright.

"Ya' alright," a voice husked out quietly, "Sammy?"

Sam looked up, blinking through his smoke-burned watery gaze. Dean was sitting in the Impala, just as Sam had left him earlier, stifling coughs into one hand, looking for all the world as if he'd not moved an inch. Like he hadn't, seconds ago, rushed to the barn, already wounded and barely on his feet, to save his little brother. Dean's eyes, dull from exhaustion, were full of worry and concern. Always full of worry for Sam. Never for himself.

Sam nodded. "Yeah," he answered breathlessly.

Turning his head, Sam watched as the flames climbed higher on the roof of the barn.

Embers from the house fire had done just as Dean had predicted: drifted across and landed on the roof of the barn. The whipping wind had done the rest. It had fanned the flames, giving the fire life as it fed on the aged timbers.

Jeremy handed him the extra bottle of water from the front seat. Sam downed it gratefully then looked at Dean. He was listing, his head sagging to his chest, but seemed content to stay upright, his side leaning into the seat's back.

Sam set the bottle down and knelt in front of his brother. "You should lie down."

Dean's eyes opened slowly and he waved him off. “Nah, m’ fine,” he muttered in refusal.

"You don’t look fine," Jeremy spoke up, his voice trembling.

Sam took a good look at the kid. Even with Dean's coat on he was shivering. Dean too, in fact. Then when Dean started coughing and clutching at his side, Sam got quickly to his feet and moved to the passenger side door and opened it. The blanket he'd given him earlier sat balled up floorboard, right where he'd obviously deposited it before getting out of the car with one of their guns and...

“Why don’t you climb in,” Sam said, motioning Jeremy in. The boy hesitated but when the wind whipped up and a chill rocked his small body, he climbed in slowly and Sam swung the door closed.

Dean's coughing had died down to the occasional huff, but Sam moved to the trunk and grabbed two more blankets, water bottles and some aspirin. He spent a minute getting both Dean and Jeremy settled, then stood and spared a glance at the still, lifeless body of William Brimmer.

The man who'd been the cause of so much pain and suffering, both emotional and physical. Sam came to a quick conclusion: the wild animals and buzzards could have him, for all he cared. If not, considering the farm was out in the middle of nowhere, it was unlikely that anyone would find the body before Sam had the time to come back and burn it.

Hopping back behind the wheel, within minutes Sam had the car maneuvering back to the winding gravel drive, the barn and slowly-burning house shrinking in the distance.

Jeremy divested himself of Dean's coat and sat wrapped in two blankets, staring quietly out the window. Noticing Sam's gaze flicking constantly to the rear-view mirror, the boy looked back occasionally and checked on Dean.

"He looks awful," Jeremy informed him, voice full of concern, Dean's quiet, stifled coughs offering background noise to Jeremy's worry.

Sam nodded curtly. "Yeah," he sighed, and gripped the wheel tighter. "I know."

"He'll be alright?"

Sam tossed another glance at the mirror and huffed. "Dean's too stubborn not to be." _I hope._

Suddenly, Jeremy sat up straighter, his body twisting around to look out the window at the house of terror from which they'd narrowly escaped. “Hal! We forgot Hal!” the kid shouted, coming somewhat out of the daze he’d been in so far. "We gotta go back!"

Sam had to stop for a minute to figure out who Hal was. And then he remembered. Margret's also-dead husband.

Dean beat him to the answer. “Hal’s gone, Jeremy,” he said, voice soft and gravelly from the backseat. “He didn’t make it out of the house. I’m sorry.”

And he actually sounded sorry, Sam noted. He’d seen the other ghost helping them, and Sam figured that, in a way, the man had found in death the redemption that he’d been denied in life. Sam also noted that Dean had left out the part where Hal was already dead to begin with.

Jeremy was silent for a minute, eyes sliding between the burning house and Dean. Then he seemed to relax, his worried gaze settling on Dean. “You should go to a hospital,” he finally said.

A muscle in Sam’s jaw twitched. _Yes, Jeremy, he should. But he won’t._

“Sammy?” Dean’s eyes were on him. Knowing. Reminding.

“I know, Dean,” Sam acknowledged begrudgingly, but God how he wanted to do just that.

"What?” Jeremy asked. He looked between the boys when the silence stretched out. “You gotta tell the cops about Bill. About what he did."

“Jeremy,” Sam said haltingly. “I—" He sighed. "The cops, we can’t exactly let them know we were here.”

This time Jeremy looked hard at Sam, and then at Dean in the backseat before turning back to Sam. “Are you wanted?”

“Not really. More like, unwanted. Cops just don’t really get what we do.”

“You chase bad guys like Bill, right?” he asked curiously.

"Not exactly." Sam glanced at the boy, not wanting to tell him too much. It was bad enough what the kid had gone through; being kidnapped. Terrorized. Forced to take a life. Sam could see why Dean hadn’t wanted to add ‘ghosts are real’ to that mess. "We… catch the ones that the police can’t touch..." he said, settling for a half-truth.

"You guys are like the A-Team," Jeremy finished with a weak smile. “Minus the van.”

Sam chuckled. "And the cigars. So, it might be better if you don’t mention us, okay Jeremy?"

Jeremy nodded. "I'm a kid. They'd never believe me anyway."

Sam nodded, but in truth, his mind was already working on the next step: what to do with Jeremy. He looked in his rear-view and saw Dean's head had slumped, chin on his chest, but he maintained his position on his side, not lying down. Dean needed medical care right away.

The car rolled down the road, rumbling by a billboard for the Kwik-e-Trip, Gas, Beer and Wine, Open 24-7, 5 miles ahead. Chet's store. Sam got an idea.

“Um, Jeremy. I need to get Dean back to our motel, get him looked after." He looked over; the kid was staring unflinchingly back. "There’s a convenience store just down the road here. Chet's the owner, and I was kinda hoping I could..."

Jeremy turned to look at Dean in the back, then back to Sam and nodded. "Sure. I’ll tell the cops I escaped from Bill. Found a gun in his barn and shot him when he came back.”

Sam stared at the kid. He must have been more tired than he'd thought. And the kid had actually come up with a convincing story.

They went over some of the other details in the car and soon they’d crafted a story that fit the evidence. Jeremy had got free while Bill had been away. In search of a phone to use to call for help, he’d stumbled into the house and ended up finding a gun rather than a working phone.

When Bill had returned to find him gone, he’d chased Jeremy inside the house. They'd stumbled through the kitchen, somehow tripping the gas line. Then, making it to the barn, Jeremy’d found himself trapped and forced to use the gun he’d discovered in Bill’s stuff. Jeremy was too traumatized to remember where he’d thrown the gun afterward and Sam figured that, after a day or two looking for a weapon that was currently in the Chevy's trunk, the cops would give up.

A glow in the rear window caught Sam’s eyes: tall flames were shooting up into the morning air. The flames on the house were higher, but the barn was gaining in the battle of the infernos. Fanned by the autumn breezes, sparks were drifting over toward the silo. It wouldn’t be long before the entire farm and all its structures, dry and aged, would be reduced to nothing but ashes in the Minnesota landscape.

A half mile from the convenience store, Sam pulled over. “Well…,” he started, but couldn’t bring himself to ask the boy to exit the car.

“It’s alright.” Jeremy pulled the lever on the door. Before he got out, he turned and looked over the backseat. Dean watched him through half-mast eyes. “Thanks. If you hadn’t followed…”

Dean nodded. “Sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner."

"You tried," Jeremy shrugged, eyes full of sincerity. "That counts for a lot to me."

A soft smile tugged at the side of Dean's face. "Take care, kiddo,” he said softly, voice coarse and rough.

Jeremy nodded then turned to Sam and offered a simple, "Thanks."

"Be safe," Sam said and the boy turned and opened the door.

In the warmth of the car, the Winchesters watched him walk away, disappearing behind a bend in the road, though not before he turned and gave a last wave good-bye.

“He’ll be alright,” Sam said with a sigh, though not with any certainty. The word ‘alright’ seemed so relative and in the quiet of the car, the sound of Dean’s rasping breaths reminded him just how far from that word Dean was.

“Um, Sammy?” Dean wheezed a breath. "You know we can't..."

Sam looked over his shoulder at Dean and with renewed concern. He looked horrible. Sounded horrible. He remembered the blood coated barbed wire, the syringes. Sam should be taking him to a hospital, no matter what his brother said.

Dean couldn’t find the strength to actually say the words, but his look was leaden as he stared at Sam. “I know, Dean. No hospital.”

Dean sighed and his eyes slipped shut. Either passed out or just asleep, it was hard to tell the difference anymore.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)


	12. Chapter 12

 

  
   

**The** Chevy rumbled as Sam pulled the car up to the parking spot in front of their motel room. Killing the engine he exhaled loudly.

Exhaustion had hit him hard on the long drive back; the farm had been north of the city, a good two hours’ drive out and their motel was on the south side, another two hours. Still recovering from the flu, Sam wanted nothing more than to sleep, but he knew that was still a ways off, even now.

Dean had managed to remain conscious, and Sam had no idea how. At one point he’d demanded music, so Sam had relented and put in AC/DC. Between bouts of slurred chatter, Dean sang, his voice groggy and hoarse, lacking its usual Dean-like enthusiasm, though that didn't stop him.

Sam carded a hand through his hair and stifled a cough. He gazed in the rear-view mirror and caught Dean's eye.

Amidst all the blood and dirt and pain lines running deep on his face, was concern. "Y’all right, Sammy?"

That confirmed in Sam's mind that his older brother's punch-drunk singing had all been for Sam's benefit. Naturally. "I'm fine Dean," Sam huffed in return.

There was a moment's hesitation before Dean, seemingly accepting Sam's word, sank back against his seat, careful of his back. The singing continued and Sam couldn't hide the small smile. No way he'd tell Dean that the tone-deaf caterwauling had actually helped. That it had comforted him.

But then, Dean probably already knew that.

The Impala maneuvered into the parking lot and as if it knew the way, it rumbled forward until it filled the space in front of their door and came to a halt. Shifting into park, Sam silenced the engine, dropped his head and sighed.

Dean was still singing, though it was little more than a whisper now.

A smile tugged at one side of Sam's mouth and for the first time in hours, he felt some relief. They were home. Dean was home. He was alive.

Bolstered by the thoughts, Sam felt his mood shift. Stealing his resolve, he pocketed the keys, tugged at the door handle and pulled. The door gave its familiar creak and Sam was out, moving around the car in large, determined strides, ready to haul his barely conscious brother out of the Chevy's backseat and into the safety of their room.

Sam no sooner got the back door open than he jerked back in surprise.

Somehow Dean had managed to sit up, though it could hardly be called sitting, it was more like angling. His side, rather than his back, took most of the weight. He was leaning, pressed into the back rest, facing the passenger side window. Sam didn’t bother asking why.

“Home ‘lready?” Dean slurred. His head wobbled upright and he squinted at his over-bright world, taking in his surroundings before looking at Sam. “Th’ wasn’t s’ bad.”

“Yeah,” Sam grinned and knelt down in front of him. “So long as you don’t mind being serenaded by the karaoke king.”

“F-fuck," Dean coughed. "Fuck karaoke,” he grimaced as the movement pulled at his sides. "’M the real deal.”

“Sure, you are.” Sam’s cheeks dimpled. “Well, you ready to do this thing?” Without waiting for an answer, Sam tugged the blanket out of the way to get at his brother's arm.

“Born," Dean hissed as Sam lifted the limb, "...ready.”

“Sure ya are," Sam said moving in close, trying to ignore his brother's grunts and groans. "C’mon," he said pulling Dean’s arm across his shoulder, mindful of his bloodied wrists. “Let’s get you inside.”

Leaning away from the car, Sam straightened, hauling Dean up with him.

The change of position left Dean gasping. “M’ not a baby,” he groaned through clenched teeth and as if to prove the point, tried to shift his weight away.

“Wha—” Sam startled. "Hey!” he yelped, unprepared for his brother's attempt at independent movement. At the first feel of his brother's loss of altitude, he grabbed at Dean's arm.

Before Sam could reel him in, the obvious pain from his own weight sent Dean into a tail-spin. He executed an awkward sort of crow-hopping, hot-footed dance and just as Sam got him back under control, emitted a teeth grinding groan of pain.

Sam got his arm back over his shoulder and his weight shifted off his feet before Dean could make a bigger fool of himself.

In the end, Sam managed to save him from a face-plant to the pavement, but only just. Afterwards they just stood there, waiting for the world to catch up. Sam trying to rein in his frustrated worry and Dean, probably trying to figure out which way was up and which way was down. Sam was quite certain that little dance hadn't done Dean's seemingly fucked up feet any favors.

"Th—" Dean inhaled a shallow breath, "—‘t was a bad idea."

"Ya' think?" Sam snapped, but managed a light but firm tone. “Just... let me do all the work.”

“Son of a…,” Dean breathed out but otherwise relented with a quick nod. "Bossy."

Sam easily bullied him back and took the majority of Dean’s weight. A fully compliant brother, however, gave Sam more than he’d bargained for. Dean's full weight nearly buckled his knees.

“Jeeze, you’re heavy,” he huffed, adjusting his hold and moving them slowly toward the door. He noticed how Dean shuffled and remembered him doing much the same at the farm, though not as severely. “What's with your feet, man?”

“Burned.”

Sam brought them to a stop. "What?" he asked, staring at his brother's face in confusion. "How?"

"Per— er Bill had his fun with the lil' cow shocking stick."

"Son of a bitch," Sam whispered, wishing Brimmer was alive all of a sudden, so he could kill him himself.

"Yeah," Dean managed a wobbly nod, "it wasn't so fun. I think he had an anti-foot thing. Or just an anti-me thing." His brow furrowed in thought. "Or both."

"Shit," Sam whispered, shaking his head. Concentrating on getting them to the door, he didn't comment. Mentally, he added Dean's feet to the already growing list of things to check on his brother's bloodied body.

Sam's brow furrowed at the various ways William Brimmer had tortured his brother. He didn't need to imagine it, because in the barn, he'd seen for himself all of Bill's 'toys'.

“Miss m’boots,” Dean mumbled, breaking Sam from his morose thoughts. Dean coughed, the sound wet and not at all what Sam wanted to hear. “Liked those damn boots.”

“Yeah, I know...” They were at the door and Sam nearly cheered. Instead, he fumbled for the key, one handed. “We'll get you a new pair. Just like those.”

“Don' wan’ new... go back, n' look for boots.”

“Not gonna happen.” Sam got the key out of his pocket and got it in the knob. It wouldn’t turn.

“Why the hell not?”

“’Cause—” The door just would not budge. "Dammit," Sam sighed.

"Jeeze...," Dean groaned and leaned away from Sam's hold, hand outstretched reaching for the wall. "Sure... you went to... college?"

Sam followed when he realized Dean was pushing away from him. Again. "Dean wha—"

Dean pressed one hand to the wall and took two half-hobbling steps toward it. "Chill," he gritted under Sam's hovering hands. "T-two hands... easier."

Sam got it; Dean was unburdening him to better deal with the locked door and Sam moved to help prop his brother against the shoulder of the door.

The wall seemed to be doing a pretty good job of keeping Dean up. Sam pinned him with a half mocking, half serious gaze. “Don’t pass out," he ordered, wagging a finger in front of his face, for good measure.

Dean scowled, muttering a quick, "Funny guy," then leaned his head wearily against the wall.

Sam put one hand on the key already in the lock, the other on the knob and jiggled. Nothing.

"Smarter 'n the lock, Sammy."

Sam didn't have to look, he could hear the smirk in Dean's voice. "N-" Sam grinned as glared at the obstinate lock. "Not the time, Dean"

Dean's smart-ass comments, while annoying, were now somewhat comforting and surprising and he looked over at his brother, grin fading. If he hadn't already looked like death warmed over — hell, he probably _was_ death warmed over — Sam would have snapped back. The thought made Sam swallow. Just how close he'd come to losing his brother...

"Stop lookin' at me like I'm dead, would ya?"

Sam turned and quickly got back to task. "Damn door," he said wiggling the key in the lock. "It give you this much trouble before?"

Dean answered with a small grunt, and another small series of coughs and Sam redoubled his efforts.

Determined, Sam wrapped both hands around the knob, and pressing one shoulder to the door, he heaved a mighty shove. The door resisted only a moment more, then popped open.

Sam took a deep breath. "Okay," and he turned to look at his brother, "let's go."

“So... when we g-go back an' get m'boots—”

"Hate to tell you this, bro," Sam pulled Dean back toward him, shouldered his weight again and carefully moved them into the room. "Got a good look in the rear-view mirror at the house and barn—your boots are charcoal, dude."

"Awww, maaaaan...," Dean wheedled and his head sagged in disappointment.

"Dean," Sam huffed as he moved Dean toward the bed. "Boots are the least of my worries. In case you haven't noticed, you've got more blood on your outside than your inside, so quit worrying about boots and pass out already."

"Yeah," Dean smirked, "but… all of that and… I still look hotter than you."

Any other day Sam would've rolled his eyes, but the fact was, Dean was hot. Heat radiated off his brother's body in unnatural, sickly waves.

Sam looked at him haltingly.

Dean was sweating like a whore in a church. Most of it cut muddy streaks through the dirt and dust covering his face. He was definitely feverish.

Lowering fever and decreasing some likelihood of infection became high priority.

"On second thought, don't pass out." Sam started moving them toward bathroom. "Shower first."

"What! Why?" Dean practically whined. “It’s too cold for a shower.”

"Dude, I gotta be able to see what I'm doing and you're coated with blood and dirt and..." Sam sniffed. "You smell like... vomit."

"Fine," Dean sighed.

"C'mon man, just a little further," Sam coaxed. "Stay with me..."

Sam was right, it wasn't very far. They reached the threshold into the bathroom and Dean's pace slowed considerably.

"Um...," Dean's tone sobered, "not s-so sure I... I can manage that," he admitted.

"Which one?" Sam asked, trying to hide his increased worry- Dean never admitted to any weakness. Ever. "The passing out or the shower?" he finished, choosing to keep the mood light and not let his brother see his building panic.

The mood seemed catchy and Dean giggled uncharacteristically. "Both?"

Frowning, Sam looked at Dean. His feverish green eyes blink goofily back at him and Sam shook his head. "Never mind." He continued onward. "We'll figure something out."

The bathroom door was ajar, so he had only to nudge it open with his foot. But that, Sam realized, had been the easy part. Maneuvering into the tiled enclosure would take some doing; fitting both of their bulky forms into the small entrance alone, would prove no easy task.

The room was quiet, save for their labored breaths, and Dean's pained grunts and groans. In that relative stillness, Sam's mind turned over the long list of things he needed to see to where his brother's care was concerned. And in that moment, a certain topic rose to the forefront of his mind. One awkward, but important topic.

Given Dean was about to undress, and given Sam was about to see him undressed, no matter how much Dean protested, the timing seemed right to get an answer. It had been festering at the back of his mind since finding out about William Brimmer's 'exploits', and more since finding his brother, and getting him away from that pervert and rapist. It was the question he knew he needed to know an answer to and it came flooding to the surface and Sam could no longer deny its validity.

"Um, so," Sam said as he considered the entry to the small bathroom, "I saw your research. Pretty impressive stuff."

Dean huffed. "Yeah, I got—" he grunted as Sam turned him sideways to get them both through the doorway. Bit his lip when his back hit the door-frame and Sam whispered an apology. "I got some skills."

"Yeah, yeah you do," God this was difficult. Sam wouldn't be surprised if he got clocked for his next words, even in his condition... "I know William Brimmer raped all those kids."

They continued their sideways shuffle until Sam had Dean lined up with the toilet and after Sam knocked the lid down, he manged to get Dean seated. Dean's right arm was hooked tight around his ribs, his left arm he lifted painfully to rest against the counter, keeping him steady on the seat.

"The guy was a re—" Dean grunted at a wave of pain, then after a moment caught his breath. "Real bastard," he finished.

"Yeah," Sam rubbed his hands against his thighs. "He was and," he looked around the small room nervously. "And he didn't," he looked back at Dean, "you know, do _that_ to you, did he?" he finished, his voice almost a whisper.

Dean blinked up at Sam. "Do... what-that?" he asked, but there was just a hint of something else there. A knowing. A decisive choice to not _want_ to know.

It made Sam worry more. "Dean, I saw pictures in his apartment. Of... the things he did to those kids," he finished swallowing down the bile that threatened.

"Oh," Dean said, eyes drifting to the floor. Full understanding came a second later and he brought his head up. "Ooh..." and he looked away. "Jesus."

"Dean, I know this isn't somethin—"

"No," Dean coughed a moment then turned back to look at Sam, eyes sincere and hard. "He didn't get the chance, but..." his eyes wavered a moment, "I think we were headed there. Probably the only reason he didn't kill me sooner."

Sam nodded and he too glanced down at the tile. God, they'd come so close to more shit from an actual person than any ghost, spirit or monster they'd ever come across. Dean had come close to—

"Good thing he caught the good-looking Winchester brother."

Sam jerked his head up. Dean was smirking at him. Actually smirking. "Dean-" he started to warn but stopped when Dean's face paled.

"What next?" Dean asked, eyes slipping and becoming unfocused again. "'M not wanting to be sitting anymore. Wann' lay down."

"No," Sam stood back a moment, chewing nervously on his lower lip as he considered his next step. "Not yet," he said looking at the waistband of Dean's jeans.

Dean blinked slowly up at him. And stilled, eyes stern. "You don’t get to undress me… unless you buy me dinner first. So quit staring."

That was exactly the response Sam had been expecting. This was not going to be easy or pleasant for either of them.

"Fine." Sam flapped his arms and took a half step back. "Do it yourself. I'll just start the water, fill up the tub and leave you to it."

Like that was gonna happen.

"No bath either," Dean wavered from his place on the toilet seat, leaning an elbow against the sink to keep upright. "Only chicks take baths… and I only take baths if a chick's in the bath."

"Okay," Sam nodded and was about to turn on the water. “I’ll go find one for you… just wait a sec.”

Dean was staring at his brother, clearly trying to figure out if Sam was actually serious. When Sam didn’t move from his spot, it was apparent that there would be no hot chick action.

"You may ‘act’ like a Samantha but you're no actual Samantha. Yer," Dean twirled a finger, "lumps're all wrong."

"I get it, alright?" Sam had the water on before Dean finished his decree. He did not want to hear Dean's definition of his 'lumps'. "Not a problem, man." He adjusted the temperature then pulled a lever between the spigots to divert water to the shower head. "Shower it is."

No way this was going to work, but he'd allow his stubborn-ass brother to believe it would. For now. Dean believed he was invincible, immune to weakness despite his suffering. But he wasn’t. Not by a long shot. And Sam knew it.

Sam fussed with a clean towel, making sure it was within easy reach, and the shampoo, soap and washcloth too, but it was all stall tactics. Dean hadn't so much as moved an inch. Head bent, the edge of his shirt in one hand, he stared at it, while continuing to lean against the sink.

"Dean?” No answer. Sam bent at the waist, trying to catch his eyes. "Hey."

Dean’s head slowly rose, enough to meet Sam's gaze. “Um...,” he looked confused and worried at the same time. “You’re still here.”

"Dean, I can help get that off if you like."

"No. It's just... there was barbed wire around the pole I was tied to. My back's kinda..."

"Crap...," Sam breathed out and leaned around to get a look. The back of the shirt was plastered to Dean's back, dark with dried blood that had soaked through. "Oh, man. Okay." Sam straightened to face his brother. "Plan B."

"'B', as in Boy this Sucks?" Dean asked with a giggle.

"'B' as in buck up and let me help," Sam said lightly. "Can you get the jeans off at least?" Dean's face paled. "Cause I think we gotta let the water soften the blood before taking that shirt off."

"Yeah." Dean’s eyes lost focus for a second and instead of pale, he looked... green. "I don' think... I can."

Sam nodded. "Alright then." He looked at the grimy bandage on his leg. "That's got to come off first," he said reaching decisively for the knot on the side. It shouldn't have worried him that Dean just sat there and let him, but it did. Soon, the filthy bandage was on the floor and Sam inspected the wound beneath. "What happened here?"

"Knife," Dean sighed, and when Sam's eyes flew the his, Dean waved at him. "Eh, had worse. Jus' a little knife," he finished pinching his thumb and forefinger with barely an inch of space between to indicate the size.

Sam rolled his eyes. It didn't appear to be bleeding at the present, but he added it to the growing list of wounds and moved to Dean's side. "Okay," he said getting a hand under Dean's arm, "time for the rest," and started to help him up.

"No, man," Dean whined as he got slowly vertical, with Sam's help. "This is _so_ not cool."

Like the giggle earlier, it was so out of character for his bother. Sam could count on one hand the number of times he'd heard that tone in Dean's voice. Every one of them, when Dean had been rendered helpless in some way and felt frustrated at his inability to do something himself. Dean was not a man to suffer his own weakness gracefully.

Personal dignity was also an issue and Sam wanted to respect that and he would too, as much as was possible. If push came to shove, he'd just wait until Dean passed out, which, by the looks of him, wasn’t that far away anyway.

This shower thing had to happen now and it had to happen fast.

Until that time, Sam could do ‘indulgent’. "Look, all I'm going to do is keep you from falling over," he said adjusting his hold on Dean's upper arm. "Getting the jeans off is all on you. Okay?"

Dean managed to glare at his brother. And Sam, out of frustration, fired back, "That or I could cut them off."

"Hell, no!" Dean grabbed his brother's arm and heaved himself up, biting back a groan. Wavering unsteadily, one hand gripping Sam with bruising force, he managed to get the top button undone. "Already lost m’boots… ruined m’ shirt…"

The lines deepened around Dean's mouth leaving no doubt in Sam's mind that the small effort alone was hurting like hell. Grunts were near whimpers and groans were checked and unchecked as he began to push material down over his trembling legs and Sam swallowed at the sight. Some of the wounds from the rock salt had pieces of dried material in them, stuck to dried blood. Great.

It seemed to take forever but by the time the blood and dirt-soaked garment was all the way down around his ankles, Dean was breathing harshly and sweat coated every inch of his skin. Sam figured he was either exhausted enough or in pain enough to no longer care when Sam bent to help him step out the rest of the way.

Either way, after what felt like hours of struggling, but was probably only a few minutes, the jeans Sam was pretty sure were ruined anyway were off and kicked to the side.

"Thin' m'... m'gonna be...," Dean panted. Beneath the layers of dirt and dried blood, he'd gone from a little green around the gills to downright vivid green.

Sam lowered him quickly to the floor and lifted the lid. Clad in only his t-shirt and boxers, Dean wretched.

It was little more than dry heaves, because there really was nothing in Dean's stomach to bring up. The last twenty-four hours aside, Sam, having done little more than sleep the last week, had no idea when his brother had eaten last.

While Dean was curled over the toilet retching, Sam came to a decision and quickly stripped to his boxers and, when it seemed the abdominal seizures and empty vomit had stopped, Sam placed a hand on the back of Dean's neck.

"Let's get this over with, alright?" Sam asked softly, but it wasn't really a question. Judging by the feel of Dean's skin beneath his palm, if Sam had any hope of getting his brother good and truly cleaned off, he'd best hurry. The fever had spiked and the empty vomiting probably hadn't helped.

Dean nodded and fell to the side, more than moved away from the toilet. Prepared, Sam caught him up gently.

"Shit," Dean murmured. "Fuckin' hurts."

"Yeah, I know," Sam said gently, "but just lean on me man, I gotcha." And Sam did. He rose, bringing his brother up with him until Dean was nearly on his feet. From there, Sam kept his weight supported, mindful now of the painful burns, along with everything else.

Sam didn’t say anything and if Dean noticed that Sam was wearing only boxers, he wasn’t saying anything either. Sam was glad for that. Then, when Sam got another look at Dean's eyes he realized the reason behind Dean’s lack of bitching; they were fever bright, unfocused.

Knee deep in his delirium, Dean probably had little to no idea what was happening around him. Sam was sure that only muscle memory was keeping him moving and it wouldn't be long before that wasn't enough. Sam needed to move this along.

Wordlessly, Sam maneuvered his brother over the side of the tub and moving in tandem with his brother's robotic feet, they stepped in, though Sam practically carried him over the tall side. Holding Dean under the flow of the water, Sam in front of him, keeping his arms hooked under Dean’s. It seemed to work; kept Dean upright and fairly steady.

Sam felt Dean's knees lock in place, but other than that he remained motionless. After a moment though, Dean tilted his head back and let the water fill his mouth. Hungrily letting it fill his mouth as if he'd not had a drink in days. Sam was sure that Dean had drank some of the water he'd given to him on the drive back, but judging by this display, it was apparent it hadn't been enough. Nowhere near enough.

There was little doubt in Sam's mind now that Dean was dehydrated, possibly severely and he'd make sure to force more fluid in him later. Somehow.

Tucking that thought away, once he saw his brother was completely soaked and most of the loose dirt was gone from his head, face and arms, Sam picked up a bottle of cheap shampoo and blinked at it a moment. Dean must have picked it up somewhere. Probably for Sam when his fever had broken and he'd longed to wash off the smell of sickness.

"Keep your eyes closed," Sam ordered, like there was any chance he'd open them.

Sam squeezed some on top of Dean's head and soaped it carefully, his fingers finding some bumps and knots on the back of his scalp to add to the cut that ran close to Dean’s hairline. Sam gently worked up just enough lather to allow suds to course down over the rest of his body, let gravity do the rest. Maybe wash out some of the wounds Sam had yet to get a good look at. If the cheap shampoo stung when it started sliding down over the wounds, Dean didn’t so much as make a peep about it.

Remembering the wounds on his back, Sam pulled Dean in, just close enough to see over his brother's shoulder and get a look at the blood-soaked mess beneath the fabric. With an experimental tug at the collar, Sam was relieved to find the water had indeed helped; less tacky, the jersey material came away much more easily now. Mostly he adjusted the fabric to allow more suds and water to run down, but he saw enough to know it was bad.

Dean sighed and Sam felt something hit his shoulder.

Leaning away slightly he saw. Dean's head now rested on Sam's shoulder, face lax, eyes closed.

Sam almost smiled. Until Dean’s legs gave.

"Crap." Sam scrambled to keep hold of his soap-slippery brother. "Dean—" he gritted out, “not yet," moving them clumsily over the side of the tub.

It was a struggle, but somehow Sam managed to get his drenched brother out of the bathroom and onto the nearest bed, which happened to be Dean’s, without dropping him. Dean remained unconscious the entire time, not so much as a grunt. Sam hoped he remained like that, as he made an executive decision about the shirt.

"Sorry man," Sam muttered apologetically and grabbed his pocket knife off the night stand. The sharp tip breached the hem and, with a sharp pull, the cotton gave the rest of the way, ripping easily up to the collar.

Flicking his wrist, Sam tossed the ruined garment across the room; it landed in the nearest garbage can with a wet thud.

The sight of his brother’s damaged torso drove the air from Sam's lungs, like a punch to the gut. "Holy…,” he breathed.

Dean’s upper body was a mess of bruises, cuts, and torn flesh, many of which oozed blood. Most disconcerting perhaps were the gouged holes. Where once there had been nothing but smooth skin and muscle, were now missing pieces of flesh instead.

Sam remembered his brother’s comment about barbed wire, remembered the wire he’d seen at the barn, and felt bile rise once again to his mouth.

Along Dean’s rib cage, the damage seemed worse, dark bruises vied with darker, textured patches of skin. Sam recognized the seared flesh of burns, some severe enough that the flesh beneath had bubbled.

Concerned about broken ribs, Sam was just about to move Dean’s arm from where it lay covering his side, when Dean’s body rocked tremulously.

Sam yanked back and blinked. Dean was shaking. Hard. Half slitted eyes staring bright green up at him. Mouth muttering something he couldn't hear.

“Shit, shit,” Sam cursed, suddenly realizing how cold the room must have felt to someone in Dean's condition. Grabbing the bedspread off his own bed and mindful of the coarse material on torn flesh, Sam hurried to gently cover Dean. “Sorry, Dean,” he muttered when Dean sank into the warmth with a contented moan.

Dean's eyes had drifted shut again and Sam sagged against the weight of his own worry and fatigue, forehead dropping to the bed near his brother's shoulder.

"This isn't helping," Sam mumbled. Lifting his head, carding fingers through his hair, Sam looked around the room, eyes wide and determined. There was much to do yet.

First things first: med kit. Sam blinked, eyes searching the room, searching his mind to recall the last time he'd seen it.

The car. Had to be. With Sam taking only the prescribed flu meds, it made sense Dean would see no reason to remove it from the car with their other belongings.

"Be right back," Sam murmured unnecessarily to his brother, then dressed hurriedly, scooped up the keys and ran to the car.

It wasn’t in the backseat, so he popped the trunk, breathing a sigh of relief when he spotted the box in the corner. Grabbing the handle he secured the car and ran back into the room. Dean slept on.

Setting the case on the opposite bed, Sam cranked up the heat in the room, knowing that he’d have to rob Dean of his blanket once more.

Next, he cleaned off the night stand and laid out alcohol, saline, suture kits, an assortment of bandages, irrigating syringes and salve, and went to work.

It was a long, strenuous job, for the both of them. While unconscious, Dean groaned with each tug of flesh, every prod from the tweezers for hidden fabric buried in the bloody gaps.

Sam prayed as he worked, hoping he was making the right call by respecting Dean’s unwillingness to go to a hospital. Hoping that the barbed wire hadn’t left behind some infection his brother might be too weak to fight.

It was an hour before he finished irrigating and stitching the deeper cuts and gashes on his arms, chest and back, and the one mysterious knife wound on his thigh. Then, after binding Dean’s ribs and applying antibiotic cream to all the burns on his torso and feet, Sam sat back a moment and took a breath.

With the back of his arm, Sam wiped away the sweat that trickled down his face then stared down at his brother. The worst of his injuries had been to his back, so Sam had arranged Dean on his stomach.

The wounds from the rock salt hadn't been that bad, but his feet… When Sam had found the angry-looking red blisters, in that moment he’d wanted Brimmer there, in the room. Alive, so Sam could kill him. With his bare hands.

"So loud...," Dean murmured, his lips mushed into the pillow.

The words were a little garbled but Sam heard them clearly. With Dean’s eyes closed, Sam couldn't be sure he wasn't just talking out of his head so Sam leaned in. "What's too loud?"

"You... thinking." Dean's eyes slitted open, glittering pools of green staring at him. "Did your best... 'll be fine."

Sam huffed. "Fine's pretty far from what you are right now." Setting his jaw, he added, "But what we're not far from is a hospital."

"Saaaaaam," Dean warned.

"No. God knows where that barbed wire had been, Dean. The risk of infection…" Sam trailed off, feeling his ire rising. "And you have, at least, one broken rib. What if it punctures a lung? What then, huh? Should I wait until you start coughing up blood?"

Dean was quiet for a full minute, his mutinous gaze never leaving Sam's. "Fine." Sam deflated with relief, but then Dean added, "Gimme a day first—"

"What!" Sam exploded off the bed, arms flapping. "Why?"

Dean grunted, got his arms under his chest and lifted slightly. "'Cause by then maybe the drugs'll be out of my system."

“You mean these?” Sam pulled the four vials he’d found in the barn out of his jacket pocket and palmed them so his brother could see.

“Yeah, I think— Where’d you get those?”

“In the barn, when I went back to rescue your… cow.”

“Not _my_ cow, just—couldn’t stand the idea of her burning to death.”

“Yeah, well, we'll talk about that later, cow-man. Besides, these are one more reason we _should_ go to the hospital. I can have them checked out, see what kind of adverse effects they might have caused...”

“Sam,” Dean started, and already Sam knew he wasn’t going to like what he was about to say. “I show up at the hospital… looking like… this,” Dean said, giving a metaphoric wave to his bandaged body, “…and the cops'll be all over us. Run my prints. We don’t need that kind of trouble.”

Sam sighed. Dean was right, of course. Since before they were old enough to drink, he and Dean had been breaking the law. Enough to leave a small trail of grave desecration’s and cons all over the country. Now they were searching for their father, who, for all they knew, was either dead or hurt. They didn’t have time to waste escaping the police.

But, there was an alternative. "The clinic."

"The... you mean that place I took you on the way here?"

Sam was shaking his head. "Nope, wouldn't work. You told them we were college students. I'm talking St. Mary's Clinc."

"Dude, that's where that fuck Brimmer worked."

"I know Dean, but it makes sense. I followed your trail there and they know—er—think we're Feds and that you were kidnapped by Brimmer—"

"Oh, great."

"Dean, this is non-negotiable, man. I concede the hospital but at the very least we get the ribs checked out. Deal?"

"Fine, but ya gotta give me a couple days first. Going in like this..."

Sam nodded, looking Dean over. "Yeah, you look like shit, Dean."

"Th-thanks," Dean's face clamped into tight lines of pain, "good looking shit, though," he said with a grin that quickly turned to a long, low anguished groan.

"Whatever," Sam rolled his eyes, then looked his brother over. "But only if you can get through the next couple of days this side of non-hemorrhaging, then we swing by the clinic when you look slightly more human."

"Fine."

Sam wasn't finished, he pointed a finger threateningly Dean's direction. "But I swear, man, if you start coughing up blood, I'll haul you to the hospital so fast you won't have a chance to get your socks on."

"D—" Dean grimaced, "deal."

The look on Dean's face broke the moment. "Well," he said digging around in their med kit, "with drugs in your system, it means you don’t get any of the good stuff until whatever that psycho gave you has run its course. So,” he finished by shaking the bottle of Tylenol then set it on the bedside stand.

Dean looked at the bottle, face drawn and pale, but even through the exhaustion he was fully resigned to a small handful of pills that, to Sam, seemed like putting a child's band-aid on a severed limb. Dean knew it too.

"And for the record," Sam glared at the bottle and dropped, equally forlorn, onto his bed, "I hate this."

"Not exactly—" Dean started coughing, clutching at his side, "thrilled myself." When he finished he laid there, breathless, pain lines deeper on his face. "But I'll live."

Sam stared at his brother as he tried to find a comfortable position.

Between William Brimmer and his crazy-assed mother, they’d done a real number on him. Sam was under no illusions; he knew how lucky he’d been to find Dean. How lucky they were that Dean had survived his time in that barn and the house. And he knew Dean knew it too.

However, Sam also knew that in Dean’s way of looking at it, it was all worth it because in the end, they’d stopped the Brimmers. They’d managed to get Jeremy out of there. They’d managed to make Jake Rhys the last child ever to fall victim to this lunatic.

“How often did he shoot you up?” Sam asked, staring at the labels on the vials. One he recognized as a sedative. Pretty powerful one too.

Dean’s brow furrowed in thought, his head back against the stack of pillows Sam had placed there for him. "Once in the car when I woke up." His eyes blinked but he added, "'n two more times that I remember ‘n the barn. No idea ‘bout any other times I was out. First was a sedative, the other two…" He shrugged.

"The other two what?" Sam eyed the bottle of prescription painkillers he'd set out. Those were out of the question now, at least until he found out if he would be facing any possible drug interaction.

Dean’s response was muffled, unintelligible and Sam looked back at him. His brother’s eyes were closed and his breathing was already starting to even out in sleep.

"Dean," Sam said. "Hey." Getting no answer, Sam tapped him on the cheek and bent down to speak closer to his ear. "Dean..." when Dean's eyes opened slowly, Sam continued. "The other two what? This could be important."

Dean swallowed. "They m-made things... hurt more. Ya' know?" he finished with long slow blinks.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, maybe." Had the bastard had given something to Dean to make the pain seem more than it was? Well, looking at his brother, Sam didn't see how it could've hurt any less.

"The guy liked his needles...," Dean murmured sleepily. "Liked all ssssorts o' sharp, poky things."

“Well," Sam sighed heavily. "Guess we'll just have to figure the rest out later," he said, carding a hand through his hair as he looked around the small room. Like he needed more to figure out later.

When Dean's eyes drifted closed again, Sam jumped. "Woah, Dean hang on a sec," he said grabbing the bottle of Tylenol and water off the night stand . "Don't go to sleep on me yet," he added moving back to sit on the edge of the adjacent bed. No response. "Dean." He tapped Dean's cheek. "Dean."

"Hmm...?" Dean's eyes dragged opened slowly. "Fuckin' hell, man," he complained, eyes confused and bloodshot.

Sam shook out two Tylenol, opened the water bottle and sat on the bed next to his brother. "Something's better than nothing, right?"

Dean grunted acknowledgment and with Sam's help he swallowed the milder painkillers. And when he was halfway through the bottle of water and ready to stop, Sam put his hand underneath it and pushed it back up.

"Finish. You're dehydrated, man."

Dean did as he was instructed. Sam knew Dean was under no illusions either. Dean knew he was one obstinate outburst away from a trip to the hospital. Even if Sam had to cuff him upside the head and drag him there unconscious.

Sam had no sooner placed the empty bottle in the garbage than Dean's head hit the pillow and he was out again. Skin still flush and hot to the touch, Sam knew it was going to be a rough night for them both.

Dropping to the small space between the beds, Sam pressed his back against the side of Dean's mattress, turned his head to the side, and kept watch.

Within seconds, however, Sam succumbed to his body's demands for rest and nodded off. The hand he kept on Dean’s wrist was solely for medical purposes. It had nothing whatsoever to do with Sam’s need to make sure that Dean was really there, that he was really safe.

And even half asleep Sam had trouble buying his own bullshit.

[  ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg)


	13. Chapter 13

 

  


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**Waking** was a slow, languid and confusing process. Thoughts mushy. Surfaces cloudy and soft.

It wasn't the barn, that much Dean was sure of. The barn had been all pain, cold fire, current, and sharpness. All of those surrounded by fear and anger. This, well, aside from the dull throb in his head, sides and... well, everywhere, this waking up wasn't anything like it had been in the barn.

Swimming back to coherence, eyes still refusing to open, flashes of memory came back. There was a kid; heat, water, concern, knives, needles...

"Sam?" In Dean's mind that's how it had sounded, but his ears had heard something like 'S'm', but then, his ears seemed stuffed, like they were full of water, or cotton, and so did the rest of his head.

Clearing his throat, Dean shifted a bit then tried again. "Sam?" he called out softly. His voice felt raw, unused.

Tentatively, he opened his eyes, but things were fuzzy, out of focus. And god his head ached, not as bad as it had, but bad enough, and forcing his eyes to focus really wasn't helping much.

Blinking several times, things closer seemed more clear and he turned his head slowly on the pillow. It was still blurry but there, just beyond his reach was a full bottle of water and when he lifted a hand to reach for it, he realized he'd misjudged the distance. It sat just beyond his fingertips, so he tried to move.

Or tried to.

Movement, it turned out, wasn't all that high on his body's priority list. Grunting in pain, the attempt turned out more like a beached whale flopping on the sand while the surf mocked and invited him back in. Back under.

Stubbornly, Dean pushed back at the waves and forced himself to remain at the surface, even if his eyes didn't want to cooperate. After a moment, he opened his eyes but otherwise remained still. Choosing to take in his surroundings as best he could laying as still as possible.

This time things seemed to swim back into place, and uncertain what he'd find when they did, he remained still. Blinking for greater clarity. Listening. Absorbing.

Water-stained ceiling. Check.

Gaudy wallpaper. Check.

TV that looked like it belonged in a museum. Check.

Scratchy, cheep covers shifting against his bandaged torso and feet. Check.

The musty smell of old clothes and mud. Check.

Motel room.

"Awesome," Dean sighed.

Dean turned his head. Only his head and very carefully. The dull ache between his ears and behind his eyes screamed at just that small rotation but he persisted. Things across the room were less clear, but, the more he blinked, the more the world slowly blurred to more recognizable shapes.

A cheap, bedside table sat in the space between the two beds, on the surface sat their laptop, open but powered down. Next to it there was a stack of...papers?

Sam's bed was empty. The chairs at the table were empty.

Dean listened. No shower running. There was no Sam anywhere.

A sudden flare of light sliced through the room.

The sun. It knifed sharply through a narrow slit between the curtain panels, filling Dean's vision with painful halos of light. "Crap," he grimaced and slammed his eyes shut.

"Great," Dean groaned and rubbed at his forehead. Concussions. He'd gotten them often enough to recognize even the smallest of signs.

Dean kept his head turned away from the light and when the sharp pain dulled to a more reasonable level, he squinted again at the stack of papers. Leaning against the pile of pages and facing him was a yellow slip of paper that melted in and out of focus. The hammering inside his skull increased and he closed his eyes but not before noting something familiar about the page.

It was fairly close so, lying flat, because he wasn't ready to try moving again, he flopped a hand out and grabbed at it, fumbling around as his fingertips did what his closed eyes could not.

Bringing the paper closer to his face, Dean recognized Sam's neat handwriting. When the large print slipped precariously into place Dean noticed something else too; the writing was huge! It was like... Remedial Writing for the Severely Concussed, or something.

> _Supply run. Back soon. **STAY. IN. BED!**_

"Bossy," Dean murmured, scoffing at the order. "Not a friggin' baby..." It was difficult to focus. Lines constantly slipped and slid and Dean had had to blink frequently, and when things righted again he kept reading...

> _I mean it, Dean. **STAY PUT!**_
> 
> _Sam_

 

"Yeah, whatever..." Dean said, his voice weary. He dropped the note and leaned back against the pillow, fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose.

Even with the large, easily readable print, the telegram-like note had been enough to send new stabs of pain into his bruised brain. He wanted nothing more than to sink back into that warm feeling of no feeling at all, but it seemed like his body had other ideas. His back, for one, was killing him.

So, after a blown breath of determination, Dean grabbed a handful of covers and rolled to his side. Then, one hand on the mattress he hoisted himself to a sitting position. It was more reclined and tilted to one side and clutching, but in the end, he was satisfied with it, even if his protesting ribs said otherwise.

Other parts were protesting too. Earlier memories of the barn were reasserting themselves with each flexed muscle and each move pulled of the flesh on his back. Torn tissue and tendons ached where he had collided one too many times with the barbed wire pole. Where his muscles had danced painfully under the current of electricity and his skin had been sliced apart by the point of Perv's knife.

The images tugged at Dean's mind and he had to shake his head to clear them. Ever so gently.

Avoiding the hard surface of the headboard, Dean stacked both pillows behind him and rested his back against the soft surface. Sitting unassisted, as much as he'd hate to admit it, just wasn't going to work. His ribs were already screaming at him.

"Fucking pussy," he berated himself, his weakness. His pain. Winchester's were made of stronger stuff than this and he was now glad Sam wasn't here to hover and see his lack of strength.

Sweat trickled down one side of his forehead by the time he was done. He eyed the bottle of over-the-counter pain killers on the nightstand. stretching out his hand, Dean grabbed the bottle and downed two. Deciding to dry swallow; reaching for the bottle of water was just too much to ask.

As soon as the medicine kicked in and Dean could stop concentrating on his breathing for two seconds straight, he got a good look at the position of items on that nightstand and smiled. Sam was such a nerd.

The bottle of painkillers had been the closest to the bed, within easy reach, quickly followed by the TV’s remote and his cellphone. At the back of the table, leaning against the wall, were two water bottles; one filled with cold water, the other empty, with the top part cut off. Dean rolled his eyes. They’d both been in this position way too many times.

He grabbed the remote instead and hit the power button. Like most motel TV's they'd come far too acquainted with over they years, this one had a grand total of four channels: one static, one encoded, one local and one music.

Given his limited choices, Dean settled for the local channel. The images didn't really matter, all he was after was some background noise, something to softly fill the void of Sam's absence. Something to drone out the pain, and keep him grounded.

When the news started, Dean snapped his attention at what was being said. The news anchor had just spat a familiar name...

> _"Fourteen-year-old Jeremy, local hero known for his daring escape from the serial child killer labeled as ‘the skinner’, is now back in the news again, but for an entirely different reason._
> 
> _After the child's picture was released on televisions and newspapers all over the country recounting the harrowing events at the Brimmers farm, the boy's Aunt, Eileen Braverman of Needmore, Texas, contacted Duluth authorities claiming to be the boy's legal guardian._
> 
> _Jeremy Dubois, whose birth name is Tyler Cooper, had been abducted by his biological mother nearly twelve years before. The boy's mother, identified as Meredith Cooper, aka Cheryl Dubois, is now facing kidnapping charges, offered fully cooperation to the police._
> 
> _Deemed unfit as legal guardian in 1992, when convicted by the St. Louis, Missouri county court for drug use, Ms. cooper had lost custody of her then, eight months old son."_

"Huh," Dean breathed. People never ceased to amaze him. The lines separating supernatural monsters and human monsters seemed to be blurring all the time.

The news reporter, of course, went straight from Jere- humm... Tyler’s personal drama to the news that, Dean was sure, where now the big local hit. Even through his blurry vision, Dean could recognize the black and white picture of William Brimmer that suddenly filled the screen.

> _"Many assumed he was just the latest in a long line of troubled runaways, but a young boy’s escape from the clutches of a killer has shed light on disappearances and murders, many more than nine years old. Local, William Arthur Brimmer, had worked as a janitor at the St. Mary’s...."_

Dean flicked a finger over the button and shut the TV off. He already knew how that story ended.

Exchanging the black remote for his silver phone, he noted for the first time the layers of white gauze wrapped around his wrists. The other hand sported a matching bandage, and there was more gauze wrapped around his chest, white medical tape holding it in place.

Dean swallowed as a memory assaulted him. A recent, all together different use of white medical tape. His head held still in a vise grip. Strips descending. Hands, fingers forcing eyes open. Unyielding adhesive holding his lids apart. Unable to blink. Unable to retreat...

With a shiver, he fought back the images. After a deep, calming breath, he hit Sam's number on the speed dial button.

Two rings later and the line connected and Dean didn't wait for Sam's greeting. "Eggs. Extra side of bacon! And sausage too, and coffee. Lots of coffee," he demanded.

Sam chuckled. _"Hey, how’re you feeling?_

"Starved," Dean rubbed his stomach. "And make sure the eggs are over easy."

_"Dude, it’s the middle of the afternoon. Breakfast is long past. I'm getting a chicken salad for me. Was thinking soup for you—"_

"Soup?" Dean practically shouted. "Hell, no. Got one word for you bitch; bacon cheeseburger, extra onions."

Sam started laughing. _"Well, concussion boy, I’m pretty sure that's more than one word."_

Dean rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Just don't forget the onions and maybe extra cheese too."

_"Dean, you haven’t had anything to eat in days._

"Oh, then make sure it's huge. Maybe double meat or two burger's, just in case." Though at his own mention of extra onions, Dean's stomach had flopped on itself. "And what’re you talking about, days?"

_"Man, you’ve been either out of it or asleep for the last two days, and, save for the times I got meds and fluids in you, you haven’t eaten a thing."_

"Huh," Dean rubbed at his rebelling stomach. "No wonder I’m hungry. Make that three burgers," he pressed because anything else was just un-Dean-like. “And some pie.”

Sam sighed into the phone. _"Before all the sleeping, you spent twenty-four hours running a fever high enough that I nearly took you to the hospital."_

"Wait, that’s like three days. Seriously?" Dean looked at the date in the screen of this phone. Crap.

 _"Way seriously,"_ Sam huffed. _"Welcome to my world, man."_

Sam's world. Right. His bout with the flu had left him in a similar predicament. Dean’s stomach lurched angrily, the jarring not at all akin to hunger. This was more like revulsion. On second thought, soup sounded good.

_"So no burger. It'd be a huge mistake. One that we'd both end up paying the price for, you in terms of your ribs and me in turns of the cleanup."_

"Well," Dean nearly pouted, "can I at least have fries?"

 _"Sure."_ Dean could hear the surrender in Sam's tone. “Just sit tight and I’ll back real quick.”

“Oh,” Dean breathed before Sam could hang up.

_”What?”_

“Careful where you show up your ugly mug,” Dean added without bite. “Jeremy’s story is all over the news.”

_”So, you’ve seen that? Man it was all over!"_

"Yeah, so Jere—er, Tyler is going to live with his aunt in Texas. Glad the kid's gonna be alright. Hell of a thing, him getting kidnapped twice in his life."

_"Yeah. He did good with the police, too. They went to the farm and found all those bodies of kids he'd murdered in the past. The majority of them in a fake wall in the basement and five others buried around in the field, including Brian Chisolm's, the missing cop. They managed to match Bill’s DNA with the killer of those six kids found from 1991 to 1997.”_

"Can't say the world's gonna miss that asshole."

Dean almost missed the hesitation before Sam spoke again. _"Yeah. Wait 'til they get to his apartment."_

"How'd you find his apartment?" Dean asked.

_"Traffic cam. Hacked into the DOT computers and found the alley where he kidnapped you. Saw his car and got plates, the rest was easy, well, except for finding the farm. That was a stroke of luck when I found Jeremy on the road."_

Dean nodded. "Nice," he cooed admiringly. "Your hacker skills are criminally handy, Sammy, m' boy."

 _"It's 'Sam' and speaking of which, my_ hacker skills _... dude! You've been holding out on me! You hacked the police computer files system! I found it in your notes!"_

"Oh," Dean grinned, basking a moment in his brother's admiration, but couldn't bring himself to lay claim. "Nah, wasn't me."

_"What? Then how...?"_

Dean's grin spread because, sometimes, the truth was just so much sweeter. "Officer Christine Bennett. Yeah, she had a thing for hard bodied, smooth talking, green-eyed guys. Or—just me. She...might've helped me with the pass codes."

 _"Of course,"_ Sam chuckled. _"I should've known."_

"Yeah man. All that geek stuff I save for you. I'd much rather do things the old-fashioned way. More satisfying and a whole lot less clothing." Dean started coughing and when attempts to clear his throat failed, he made the effort to grab the water bottle and chugged.

_"Dean?"_

Dean didn't have the breath to tell him to wait, just emptied half the bottle and when he could breathe again, pressed a hand to his protesting ribs. "Shit," he sighed, the pull on his sides abominable.

_"I should come back now."_

"Do you have the food already?" Dean asked breathlessly.

_"I put in the order. It's not out yet."_

"Then keep your ass there. I'm hungry."

Sam sighed. _"Fine. You sure you'll be alright?"_

Dean ignored the question. "So, Bill's apartment...?" He tried to steer them back on track. He needed this. Badly. It helped tremendously to take his mind off the ache.

 _"Yeah, that's how I found out Brimmer worked at the clinic. Also, I found Brian Chisolm's journal there. It had all of the man’s notes in it. And there was also Brimmer’s,"_ Sam swallowed, _"picture collection."_

Dean knew a moment of panic and stilled. He struggled to remember what had happened to that camera Bill had used in the barn and the photographic evidence there. Faint remembrances of smoke and fire put Dean at ease. It had probably burned up, along with all other evidence that he’d ever been in that place. "As in, a perverts guide to his favorite conquests?"

 _"More like ‘memoirs of a killer’,"_ Sam choked back.

Dean bit back the retort about Sam and girly books. He knew what Sam was thinking; how Dean had come close to being one of Bill's favorite memories. "But you found me in time, Sam. It's all good."

Sam didn't answer right away. There was a full minute of choked silence. _"I almost didn't get there in time."_

"Yeah well, you did so let’s get back to the glass-half-full, alright?"

 _"So,"_ Sam changed the subject, _"you really feeling alright? How are the feet?"_

"Not sure." Dean tested his feet by wiggling his toes. By comparison the pain wasn't awful. "Haven’t stood up yet. They don’t feel all that bad, though. Guess I’ll find out when I get my shower."

 _"No."_ Sam shot back quickly. _"Wait ‘til I get back, just in case…"_

"Dude. Gross," Dean recoiled. "Unless you’re a chick — who is in no way related to me — you’re not going to help me shower." Images of Sam holding him up in the shower slipped into place. No way he was going to admit it ever happened. He's pretty damn sure Sam was like-minded on that one.

_"Just, wait ‘til I get back, okay?"_

"Yeah, fine…" Dean sighed tiredly. "Think I’ll watch some more TV ‘til you get back, but once we eat, we are _so_ blowing this Popsicle stand." The worry and concern in his brother's voice notwithstanding, he could admit to himself that maybe he wasn’t quite up to showering. Not just yet.

_"Once we’re done at the clinic, we’ll head to Bobby’s. He’s got a–"_

"Woah, woah," Dean sat up. "Clinic? No clinic man. I’m fine. Let’s just hit the road. What’s Bobby got huh? Wendigo? Shtriga? Wraith?

 _"He’s got an old Ford he wants your help with,"_ Sam's voice had gone back to tense and bitchy, _"and we’re going to the clinic."_

"Sam—"

 _"No, man."_ It was Sam's 'no arguments' voice. God, when the kid wanted to, he could rival Dad, _"No getting out of this one. They’ve got x-ray equipment and they still think we’re FBI so we’re going and that’s final. Just—let’s get the ribs checked out and if all goes well we’re on the road."_

Dean leaned back against the pillows, rubbing his side. "Okay, but just the ribs."

_"That was the deal."_

"What deal?" Really. Dean had no clue what Sam was talking about.

 _"Never mind,"_ Sam was relaxed and there was definitely something in his voice like he knew something Dean didn't. _"I'll be back in 20. Just relax ‘til I get there."_

"Not really—" Dean let go a jaw-cracking yawn, "—tired."

 _"Right,"_ Sam chuckled. _"See you in a few."_

"Yeah, few...," Dean drifted off to sleep.

  
[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v515/Jackfan2/Supernatural/Last%20Child%20Graphics/?action=view&current=barbedwirestorydivider.jpg) **  
**

END

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks entirely to my muse. My heart. Adrenalineshots: It's been a journey, has it not? It started back when I first found your stories. There was a truly lyrical and gorgeous quality to your work. You made me laugh in one instant, and gasp in another. You truly had and always have had, a strong sense of originality and depth but more than that, your stories just.... fit. I offered to be your beta and now look where we are. I would never have started writing again, and I definitely would never have done this without you. Your support. Your guidance. Your understanding and patience, but mostly your friendship. It's that friendship that has made every word worth anything. No matter how the idea shook out in the end, the process was more enriching now and every story after, for your presence in my life. You're an lighthouse when seas have been less than following. And sky so cloudy and I couldn't see the stars. My compass. Yeah, yeah, I'm still a pirate at heart, but then I couldn't imagine better crew-mates to weather the storm with.


End file.
